


The Owl and the Sparrow

by meggieeb



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 16:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 34
Words: 79,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meggieeb/pseuds/meggieeb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the Copycat Murders, Hannibal Lecter is burdened with the task of taking a young girl under his wing. Ophelia Ford, a dance student with a dangerous past, has committed mass murder, but remembers nothing of it. Doctor Lecter, with the help of the Baltimore FBI team, must uncover her dark secret, all while keeping her from a gruesome fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_When you're alone and life is making you lonely_

_You can always go... downtown._

 

Four dim fluorescent lights flickered over the mirror, cut horizontally through the middle by a ballet barre. A single CD player wedged in between a small locker and a portable fan blared “Downtown” by Petula Clark through the long room. All of the windows were open, letting the warm night air waft in. 

 

_When you've got worries, all the noise and the hurry_

_Seems to help, I know... downtown._

 

Poised in the center of the room, toes pointed and slender hands held aloft, Ophelia Ford focused on the space in front of her. She took deep breaths as the music continued, wracking her brain for the first movements of the combination she had learned just hour before. Why could she not remember? They were so simple. 

 

_Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city_

_Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty_

_How can you lose?_

 

“Five, six, seven, eight,” Ophelia breathed, her memory suddenly snapping back to attention. In a series of fluid movements, she leaped and turned, gliding through axel turns, barrel leaps, and handsprings, one after another. But then her bare feet slapped onto something wet on the floor, and her legs flew out from under her. She cursed, landing hard. 

“Again, again,” she hissed, hardly noticing the sticky wetness on her feet, hands, and now all up and down her back and legs. She started into the routine again, her brows furrowed and the bun atop her head beginning to unravel. A few specks of the stickiness flew from the tips of her fingers and toes and splattered onto the mirror. The room seemed to get darker, as if the four lights over the mirror were beginning to give out. It was, after all, the middle of the night. Sirens screamed to life in the distance. 

 

_The lights are much brighter there_

_You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares_

 

Ophelia cried out in wordless protest as she slipped in the puddle again. She pressed her stick hands over her face and screamed, the sound barely muffled. Taking another, deeper breath, she wiped her hands down the front of her tank top and hoisted herself back up. 

“Axel, barrel, axel, handspring... lunge?” Ophelia smacked her palms against her forehead, trying desperately to jumble her brains into order. Her face was now almost entirely covered in the sticky residue, but she didn’t notice. Ophelia nervously clenched and unclenched her fingers, smacking them against her head again, as if she could pound the memory into her brain. 

“Come on, come on...” Ophelia hissed at her reflection, “Remember.”

The sirens were suddenly very close and very loud, and blue and red lights flashed in the windows of the studio. 

 

_So go downtown_

_Things will be great when you're downtown_

_No finer place for sure, downtown_

_Everything's waiting for you_

 

As Petula Clark’s voice crescendoed and the chorus of the song echoed through the room, the door flew open and a stream of men burst through, clad in head-to-to black, with helmets, bulletproof vests, and militaristic black boots. Ophelia fell to the floor again, but this time from fright. The men swarmed her, brandishing long guns in her face and shining flashlights in her face. 

“Get on the ground! On the ground!” the men roared, drowning out Petula Clark and blocking the lights from Ophelia’s view. 

Ophelia cowered on the floor, below the undulating sea of men, her hands held up before her face. Her legs curled underneath her, and her eyes clamped shut as tight as she could make them. She could hear shouting. She could feel the heat of their breath all around her. And she could smell iron.

Suddenly, Ophelia was extremely aware of herself. The stickiness on her hands, legs, face, and back, and that had dripped onto the floor and flung onto the walls and mirror. A few droplets had even found their way to the CD player, which now seemed rather far away. 

Ophelia looked down at the shiny redness that covered her skin and clothes. Her breath hitched in her throat as the rusty, metallic smell hit her full-force for the first time. It had begun to dry around her cuticles and beneath her fingernails. Dark red footprints criss-crossed the floor, all convening in one, central puddle where she had stood just minutes earlier. 

But before her eyes could register the twenty-odd guns that were pointed at her face, her head hit the wooden floor and she was unconscious.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The cork board was full of faces, all connected with red string to one picture in the very center. The picture was of a small, friendly-looking girl; blonde hair, big green eyes, a plump-lipped smile, and a litter of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Seeing the picture in any other context, anyone in the Baltimore FBI office would peg Ophelia Ford as an all-around good girl. Maybe the type who enjoyed sushi, kittens, and ABC Family original television shows. The same went for the other smiling female faces on the board; all twenty one of them looked undeniably normal. 

Three of Baltimore’s finest stood around the cork board, their eyebrows furrowed and hands busily tracing red string and flipping through reports and files. 

Head of Behavioral Sciences, Jack Crawford, stared at the twenty one faces on the board, reading the names aloud. His hands clenched and unclenched in the pockets of his jacket. 

Special Agent Beverly Katz stood beside him, reading a police report filed just hours before by the Tempe, Arizona police department. She pursed her lips, tutting and sighing at the sloppiness of the report. Beverly was used to a higher caliber of work, but she could not blame these Arizona men. They had, after all, written this report at four in the morning. 

And Alana Bloom, her brown hair pulled studiously away from her face, sat in Jack’s enormous swiveling chair, flipping through the files of the twenty one girls on the board. Ophelia Ford’s folder lay open on the desk, a picture identical to the one Jack was studying also laid to the side. 

“So Ophelia Ford,” Jack turned to his partners for the morning, “Twenty one years old. Born and raised in Phoenix, studying dance at Arizona State. The president of three clubs, on the honor roll, and golden child. Spotless record, am I right?” He looked to Alana. 

She nodded, “Not so much as a speeding ticket. She wrote in her application essays about her favorite _charity_ to volunteer with. I don’t get it.”

“Neither do I,” Beverly leaned against the wall, her eyes still focused on Ophelia’s picture, “The report says that she was terrified when they took her in. Not the kind of ‘feigned innocence’ terrified, but the really, truly scared kind of terrified. Like she didn’t know where she was.”

“Read the medical report from last night again,” Jack rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin. 

“It says, ‘Ford in an almost seizure-like state: dilated pupils, shaking, and shortness of breath. She is confused and scared, and continues to pound her head with her hands. Won’t stop screaming. Three nosebleeds in ten minutes.’ And then it goes into the crime scene,” Beverly frowned and scanned the report again, for what felt like the millionth time.

“She’s been quiet since she’s gotten here though, right?” Jack started out of the room and motioned for Beverly and Alana to follow. 

“She hasn’t said a word,” Alana sped up to walk side-by-side with Jack, “They brought her some food and water and let her get cleaned up. Maybe she’ll be ready to talk now.”

The trio wound through the long halls of the Baltimore FBI, remaining silent as the rest of the department buzzed about, eager for some action since the Chesapeake Ripper and the Copycat Killer had gone dormant. The incidents surrounding that case were still a touchy subject with all of them though it had been nearly a year, and they were surely all ready to get their minds off of it. 

The first holding cell at the bottom of the seemingly endless flight of stairs down to what served as the department’s “dungeon” was sealed shut, with two police guards flanking the heavy metal door. Through the slit that barely passed for a window, Jack could see Ophelia sitting at the far-too familiar chrome table, her cuffed hands folded politely before her. She stared at the wall blankly, almost as if she was sleeping with her eyes wide open. 

Jack entered first, leaving Beverly and Alana to watch from the glass room on the opposite end of the chamber. His footsteps echoed around the room, and the sound of his chair scraping the concrete floor was a grating, uncomfortable noise. But still, Ophelia did not break her stare. She kept her focus on the air beyond him. 

It was eerie, Jack had to admit. The difference between the sunny girl in the picture and the sunken face of the girl before him. He stared at her for a moment, waiting to see who would have to break the silence first. Jack quickly took a mental note of the bruises that ringed her neck and wrists, and that peeked out from underneath her hairline.

“Ophelia?” Jack gave in, leaning toward her, “Hi there. My name is Jack Crawford. I’m the Special Agent in charge around here. I’m the one you need to talk to. You can trust me.”

Ophelia shook her head, her eyes still focused on empty space, “No.”

“Why not?” Jack leaned back, clasping his hands in his lap, “You’re in a big mess here, kid. But you won’t be if you just talk.”

She shook her head again. 

Jack motioned for the women to come into the room, “The three of us are here to figure out why what happened, happened. We’re all you’re going to get. Beverly Katz,” she nodded to Ophelia, a sympathetic smile on her face, “and Alana Bloom. Our job is to figure you out, but we can’t do that if you _don’t talk._ ”

Ophelia’s head snapped to where Alana stood, and her gaze fixed so intently on her that Jack was convinced a hole would burn in Alana’s head. 

“You,” Ophelia barked, “You. Alana Bloom.”

Taken aback for a moment, Alana shooed the others from the room. Maybe she could get to Ophelia, girl to girl. 

Alana sat, facing Ophelia, her face and voice as pleasant as she could make it, “He’s not here now, so you’ll just have to settle for me. You’re a dance student, right? I could never get the hang of dancing.”

“You know him, though,” Ophelia refused to speak of anything else, “He’s the one I need. Not Jack Crawford or Beverly Katz or Alana Bloom. I need to speak with _him._ ”

“But why?” Alana leaned forward so that her face was close to Ophelia’s. Through the impassive mask of her face, Alana could see apprehension, fear, and emptiness. There was also something empty behind Ophelia’s wide eyes. She was hiding something, that was certain. 

Ophelia shook her head, “All that live must die, passing through nature to eternity.”

“Shakespeare.”

“We are the causes of our own suffering,” her voice was mechanical, as if she was reciting lines. 

“I have to admit, I don’t know that one,” Alana shook her head, casting a glance at the wall Jack and Beverly were standing behind, “But we digress. Tell me why you won’t talk to anybody but him.”

Ophelia shrugged. 

“He’s not a part of this department, Ophelia. He hasn’t been for a while. I can’t ask him to come back here after what’s happened. It’s not right, especially with such a volatile case still up in the air. Talk to me. From one girl to another. Tell my why you did it. Look, I’m not trying to pull any mind games on you here. I’ll be as honest and open with you as I would a patient.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Ophelia nodded, “I swear, I’ll talk to him. I need to talk to him. You’re his friend, right? He’ll come for you. He needs to.”

Alana leaned back again. Why was she so adamant about talking to the one person who had little to no bearing on her fate in the long run? She, Jack, and Beverly were the closest people she had to protectors. Ophelia had no parents to come and claim her. No aunts, uncles, or cousins, either. And there was no way she could deny what she had done. She was caught red-handed. Literally. So perhaps the only way to move along was to let her have what she wanted.

“Fine,” Alana stood, “I’ll call him.”

Tears began to pool in Ophelia’s eyes as her tense body relaxed and her jaw began to tremble, “Thank you. Thank you.”

Alana met Jack and Beverly outside the thick metal door. They all looked equally confused; nothing about Ophelia made sense. She was erratic, emotional, and her mind was a sieve, holding onto only the most random bits of information. The trio hurried back to Jack’s office in silence. Beverly was off to preside over a reconstruction of the crime scene, Jack was to meet with the Tempe police, and Alana had a phone call to make. 

Once Beverly and Jack had collected their things and vacated the office, Alana rifled through her old leather bag, retrieving her cell and dialing the oh-so-familiar number as she absentmindedly came to stand before the cork board. 

Her eyes were stuck on Ophelia’s picture when he finally answered. “Alana Bloom. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Hannibal? I need your help.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Ophelia shifted in her seat. In the past five hours, she had been allowed one bathroom break. She had been given a small plastic cup of water, and a piece of toast. The orange jumpsuit was hot and prickly on her skin, as if it had been worn recently, but not washed. Her hair was greasy and still speckled with blood, tied loosely out of her face. 

But nothing mattered, but that Hannibal Lecter would soon be here. She wanted to see him. _Needed_ to see him, to finally meet him, with every fiber of her being. When she thought of what she would say to him, she drew a blank. In fact, she did not know much about him. It had just been ingrained into her mind that he was the one to speak to, and to get close to. And she did not question it. 

The longer she waited, the more apprehensive she became. Ophelia began to pick at her fingernails and pull at the pieces of string that dangled from the rolled sleeves of the jumpsuit. The old thing smelled like dogs, iron, and sweat. Ophelia wished she could actually clean herself up. 

In any other situation, she would have focused more on the “big picture” of what had transpired within the last twenty four hours, but the prospect of Hannibal Lecter made Ophelia forget the redness beneath her nails and the stickiness in her hair. 

_Hannibal Lecter was coming._

The door slowly creaked open, and Ophelia snapped her head up. In through the door strode a handsome, professorial man with light brown hair combed neatly to the side and a suave brown suit. Ophelia watched, her mouth hanging slightly open, as he made his way slowly to the chair before her, the dim fluorescent lights casting shadows across his cut, sharp facial features. She was suddenly very aware that she was slouching. 

“I would stand to shake your hand, but...” Ophelia’s voice cracked as she attempted humor. Relief flooded her as he had a seat. 

He did not smile, “You are Ophelia Ford.”

“And you are Hannibal Lecter.”

“Correct,” he stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment, studying her face, “Why am I here, Miss Ford?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly found herself without a definitive answer, “I... I did a bad thing.”

“I would say so,” Hannibal smoothed the front of his suit and adjusted his tie, “Are you aware of just how many lives you took last night?”

Ophelia looked at the ceiling and scrunched up her face, “Fifteen? No. Nineteen. Twenty?”

“Twenty,” Hannibal nodded, “Each and every one of your sorority sisters.”

“Chi Omega,” she scoffed looking back down at Hannibal, “What a joke. They don’t know... anything. They don’t know anything worth knowing _at all_.”

“Tell me how you did it.” Hannibal studied Ophelia’s eyes. They were empty. She was clearly doing a lot of thinking, as if she was working hard to recall facts. 

“I...” Ophelia frowned, “ah... I put Xanax in the sorority mom’s coffee. You know, sorority moms are there to make sure we don’t die or whatever,” she snorted, “But anyway, I put that in her coffee, I think, and she was out pretty fast. So I went to the kitchen and... and... I was in the dance studio. Covered in blood. It’s hard to... the details....”

“Do you not _recall_ butchering twenty people?”

“All I remember was being so mad. So, so, _so_ angry at everyone. I just... I can’t remember a lot of things. I really vividly remember being in the dance studio. I remember being on the ground, with a whole lot of blood... all over me.” She nervously began to pick clumps of blood from beneath her fingernails. 

Hannibal studied her again for a moment then asked, “Does your family have any history of mental illness?”

Ophelia looked at him like he had slapped her, “ _No_ my family doesn’t have any mental _illness._ My dad was the smartest person I know; he was a scientist. He worked in a research facility in _Phoenix_. Mental illness... no. Nope.”

“No offense intended, Ophelia, I assure you. It was just a question.”

“And I don’t have anything wrong with me either,” Ophelia’s fingers began to twitch, “I don’t have a problem. I don’t have a mental illness.”

“I never suggested that,” Hannibal’s face remained impassive, “But you do seem to have some problems with remembering things.”

Ophelia shrugged, “I guess I do.”

“Is this something that has occurred more than once?”

After a moment of thought, she nodded, “Yeah, actually. There are patches... missing. I just figured that was what I got for running three clubs, majoring in fine arts, and being a part of a sorority.” She attempted a laugh, but it came out more like a strangled squawk. Ophelia suddenly felt rather nervous, as if Hannibalhas placed her under an unusually large microscope. 

“What are these bruises from?” Hannibal reached a large hand toward Ophelia’s wrist, but she jerked away, nearly knocking her own chair over backwards. 

“Don’t touch me!” Ophelia cradled her hands to her neck, where other purple blooms had been since the night before. She did not remember where these had come from either, but she knew they held a secret, whatever it might be. 

Hannibal held up his hands and looked down at the table, “I apologize, Ophelia. Why don’t we take a break? You take a moment to rest. I would like to take this opportunity to speak with my colleagues.”

Ophelia nodded, but said nothing. The same fear that she had felt the night before flooded her entire body, making her hands begin to quiver. 

_What is happening to me?_ Ophelia covered her face with her hands and inhaled deeply and exhaling as if to expel some sort of demon from her body. She began to rub her bruises again. 

Hannibal and Alana stood outside the door and watched Ophelia virtually fold in on herself. 

“Well?” Alana looked up at Hannibal, whose stony face was still fixed on Ophelia, “It’s possible that she has some sort of personality disorder, but-”

“No,” Hannibal shook his head, “It’s no disorder. Has anyone run blood tests? Given her a good, thorough physical examination.”

Alana shook her head, “Jack didn’t want to move her until he had a better idea of what he was dealing with.”

“Test her for drugs,” Hannibal instructed, “Let her rest, eat, clean up. Get her out of that jumpsuit. No one wants it here, either. I will sit with her, attempt to calm her down and keep her calm while tests are run. I will need the results by the end of the day if possible, Alana.”

“What are you thinking, Hannibal?” Alana recognized the glint in her old colleague’s eyes. He was onto something that no ordinary man could see. 

“I believe that Miss Ophelia may be under more influences than she is letting on. She exhibits all the symptoms of the first stages of withdrawal, as well as those of abuse.”

“Her file,” Alana handed him a thick folder, “She hasn’t had parents for years. Who would be the abuser?”

“That is what I must find out,” Hannibal nodded as he started back into the room, “But first she needs to relax, or we won’t be getting anywhere.”

Ophelia pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her hands around them as Hannibal took a seat before her once again. She prepared to be berated, punished, or given a fatal sentence. 

But instead, Hannibal just smiled, leaning back and clasping his hands in his lap. He cocked his head to the side, studying her, drinking in every feature of her face. She fidgeted, uncomfortable under his piercing gaze. 

“The name ‘Ophelia’,” Hannibal quipped, “A reference to Shakespeare, no doubt?”

Ophelia nodded, “Tragic, huh? Kind of has a reputation.”

“I’ve always enjoyed _Hamlet_ , actually,” Hannibal shrugged, “His tragic lover was always one of the most fascinating characters.”

“Never gotten that before,” Ophelia snorted, “One time when I went to the gym on campus, a bunch of my sorority sisters pretended to drown me. Not funny, I know. Pretty unfortunate, is what it is. I guess my mom thought it would be funny.”

“Perhaps she understood Shakespeare’s genius, and thought it fit to share it with you.”

“Sure,” she was skeptical, but she had never thought about it that way, “Shakespeare’s work is pretty great though. I was in _Romeo and Juliet_ in high school.”

“And did you enjoy that?”

Ophelia shrugged, “I was the Nurse. I wore a fat suit.”

“Arts are a passion of yours, or so I have been told. You are a dancer?”

“Yeah, yeah I am,” she seemed to perk up a bit, “I study dance at my college. It’s not like school, really. I just get to dance all day. I got all the boring classes out of the way the summer before my first semester. Did you know that I got one of the choreographers from _So You Think You Can Dance_ to come to the campus and teach a class? Sonya Tayeh. The one with the,” she made a wild hand gesture about her head, “hair. Do you watch that show?”

“I’m afraid I have not seen it,” Hannibal pursed his lips. 

“Of course not,” Ophelia laughed, stretching her legs back under the table again, “You’re an _adult_.”

“Tell me about your friends.”

“All my friends were in the... the sorority,” Ophelia suddenly went rather quiet, “When you’re forced to live with people, you kind of have to get close, ya’ know?”

“Quite true,” Hannibal nodded, “Did you have friends outside of the sorority? Some of the others in your classes, perhaps?”

“I guess,” Ophelia began to wring her hands, “I would always look forward to coming back to the Chi O house, but... sometimes it was a bit much. Being around all those girls all the time. They would always have these parties. I never really went to them; I would just sit in my room and practice or... or read. I got kind of into classical music for a while. But they would always make fun of me. I was the only one who wasn’t,” her voice suddenly became venomous and hollow, “so _superficial_. So _stupid_ and _insignificant._ I knew that there was more out there than sorority parties and ‘keg stands’. Whatever. I guess I don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

“You don’t,” Hannibal agreed slowly, “What made you feel these things? When did you start to think so little of your sisters?”

“The word ‘sister’,” Ophelia grimaced, “should not be used to describe sororities. Friends, sure, but sometimes they took the ‘sister’ thing a bit far. They were great and all, but sometimes I would get away. I... don’t know how, but I would get away.”

“Where would you get away to?”

Ophelia was silent, as if the lines she had been reciting were not coming to her as easily. She shook her head and mumbled, “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“Alright, then let’s move on to something different. How about your family? Tell me about them.”

“Well,” and Ophelia had perked up again, on a roll, “my mom stayed at home mostly. She had done art in college, so she stayed home painting and sculpting and stuff. Dad worked at a research facility in Phoenix. Medical research. Lots of big words that I never understood.”

“And where are they now?”

“Um,” Ophelia grew quiet again, “Mom left. She found an artsy type from Seattle, and I guess she’s still there. Dad... dad’s dead. They never told us how. Experiment gone bad, I guess. I don’t know.”

“I am sorry, Ophelia,” Hannibal reached his hand out, and for a moment she let his fingers brush against the sleeve of her jumpsuit. But when his fingers drew close to the bruises on her arm, she pulled away, banging her elbow on the back of the chair. 

Just then, two men followed by Alana Bloom entered the room, carrying a bundle of clothes and a tray of food. 

Hannibal left the room, letting Alana hand the small girl a pair of sweatpants too large for her frame, and an old white t-shirt. She left the guards to give Ophelia her food, hurrying to join Hannibal outside the room. 

“She’s so erratic,” Alana shook her head, “It’s like there are two different brains in there, fighting for control.”

“Look,” Hannibal pointed through the window at Ophelia, who was still changing into the grown man-sized clothes, “Look at all the bruises.”

“I noticed,” Alana nodded, “And see the bruises on her torso? Where the bruises would be hidden, they’re centered around little welts. Look.”

“Insect bites, perhaps?” 

“Maybe. But look at the way she’s trying to hide them.” They watched as Ophelia’s arms buzzed about, trying to shield the little splotches of red, blue, and purple as the guards helped her out of the oversized jumpsuit and into her clothes. 

“Not insect bites, then.” Hannibal and Alana stood in silence while Ophelia downed her small bowl of soup and her bottle of water within minutes. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, then looked over to where her observers stood. Ophelia stared at the door, unmoving. 

“What do you think?” Alana looked up at Hannibal, his impassive face still on Ophelia. 

“I think,” Hannibal sighed, stuffing his hands in his finely tailored pockets, “There is something going on, more than she’s letting on. More than she’s even capable of being aware of.”

“How so?”

Hannibal was silent for a moment, then he chose his words carefully, “Perhaps... she needs to be observed. Carefully. She loses memories. She is erratic. Ophelia displays all the behavior of an addict, though there is no way to be sure if that is the case until she can be seen by a doctor. She seems to be fighting within her own head.”

“So, what should be done? Psychotherapy? If we don’t figure something out soon, she’ll be in prison for life. Twenty _people._ Alone. She’s got to be some kind of neurotic.”

“It’s quite fantastic, how she achieved it,” Hannibal nodded, “But there is more to the story. Perhaps she doesn’t even know what it is.”

“Then she needs to be observed.”

“Yes,” Hannibal nodded, “Observed and guided.”

“But she only speaks to you,” Alana rubbed her hand across her forehead, tired, “Whenever Jack or I try to communicate with her, she turns robotic. Unresponsive entirely.”

“Then I will be the one to guide her.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Most psychology departments are filled with ham radio enthusiasts and other personality- deficients. Some are pre-dispositioned to the romantic ‘whims’ of the mind. I could never find comfort among their ranks.”

Hannibal talked idly as he led Ophelia through the great wooden doors of his home. She looked around, only half listening to what he was saying; she was far too preoccupied with the lavishness and modernity of Hannibal’s home. She had expected him to hold a higher standard of living, but had not expected such a display. 

The kitchen and dining room had clearly been paid the most attention. While the sitting room seemed to be barely more than a hallway, the kitchen and adjoined dining room were the heart of the home. Hannibal even seemed to relax more in these spaces. 

“I will fix you some real food,” he turned and smiled at her, the first glimpse of actual emotion Ophelia had seen on his face since their first meeting earlier that day, “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable? Your room is through the sitting room, up the stairs and the farthest room on the right side. I am sure you will be able to find it yourself.”

Ophelia nodded curtly and hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder and she turned to leave the kitchen. A few faceless and nameless men had brought her a duffel full of the belongings she had kept in the room she had shared in the sorority house before she had been carted off to Hannibal’s house. She had not questioned it; she had been glad to get out of the holding cell with its uncomfortable chairs and blinding lights. 

The bedroom that she had been assigned was larger and nicer than anything she had ever lived in, though it looked like it had been thrown together in a hasty whirl. Perhaps Hannibal was not accustomed to having company. 

The wallpaper was forest green, with vines and flowers of similar, subdued hues, painted on. The floors were, like the rest of the house, dark wood and virtually spotless. Her bed was pressed neatly against the wall, the headboard sitting underneath a wide window. The bedspread was silky and cream colored, and the red detailing matched the rug that sat before the dresser and mirror on the opposite side of the room. Ophelia nodded, tossing her duffel down onto the bed. She could get used to this. It was far nicer than anywhere she had ever lived, even if it had just been thrown together. 

The next room down was a bathroom made nearly entirely of marble. Chutes of bamboo sprouted from a vase in the corner of the room, and candles lined the counter opposite the enormous tub and shower. Ophelia cracked a smile. She couldn’t imagine the esteemed Hannibal Lecter lighting candles and taking a bubble bath. Perhaps this was also something that had been thrown together at the last second in anticipation of her arrival. 

The only other room in the dark hallway was locked. The door was larger, darker, and much heavier-looking than the door to her room and the door to the bathroom. The handle looked as if it could be made of solid gold, and it smelled of fine finish. Perhaps this was Hannibal’s room. Ophelia jiggled the handle a few times, but was immediately distracted by the smell of cooking meat and spices. She hurried down the stairs, the locked room all but forgotten. 

To the strains of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, Hannibal sprinkled some garnish onto a plate of steaming, juicy meat. Along with an offering of fried tomatoes and onions, the meat was gently simmering in a wine stock that pooled at the center of the plate on which it rested. Ophelia was taken aback for a moment; in such a short time, Hannibal had created dish only seen, and smelled, at gourmet restaurants. 

“I’m impressed,” Ophelia took in the smell of the meat as Hannibal slid a plate toward her, “Looks fantastic.”

“I’m very careful about what I put in my body,” Hannibal gestured for Ophelia to follow him into the dining room, “which means I end up preparing all of my own meals. It’s turned into somewhat of a passion.”

Ophelia took a bite immediately after being seated beside Hannibal at the table, “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Hannibal nodded, “I would like to apologize for the analytical ambush that you had to endure earlier today. But I know that I will soon be apologizing again and you’ll tire of that. So perhaps I should consider using my apologies sparingly.”

Ophelia laughed, her mouth full of the decadent food. 

“Or perhaps,” Hannibal took a sip of wine, “we could socialize like adults. God forbid we become friends.”

“You wouldn’t find me interesting, I’m afraid,” Ophelia shrugged her head, only halfway joking. 

“On the contrary. I’m quite a patron of the fine arts, something you are familiar with.”

Ophelia snorted, “At the moment, all I’m familiar with is Alana Bloom and Jack Crawford.”

“Dr. Bloom is the exception to the personality-deficients I mentioned earlier,” Hannibal smiled, “I mentored her for quite some time, but I certainly learned as much from her as she did from me. But Jack Crawford.... We see in different ways. That’s all.”

Ophelia sat in silence for a moment, staring at her plate, but not eating. She was deep in thought, clearly, her mouth twisting into a frown and her brow furrowing. 

“Eat your dinner,” Hannibal prompted, and she obeyed, still lost in thought. 

Ophelia’s eyes fell on a swatch of purple beaded fabric wadded into a ball on the chair opposite her. It looked like a scarf. 

“What’s that?” Ophelia pointed to it with her fork, a droplet of sauce falling from the tip. 

Hannibal leaned calmly across the table and grabbed the scarf, “A friend’s. Must have left it here a long time ago.” Without another word, he got up from the table and took the scarf out of the room. She heard his feet clunking up the stairs, and the sound of a locking being turned. Within moments, he had returned, without the scarf. 

“So,” Ophelia leaned back in her chair, pleasantly full, “Why am I here?”

“Evolution,” Hannibal cracked a smile. 

Ophelia laughed, “Ok, yeah, but why am I _here_? At your house? Are you going to psychoanalyze me again?”

“No,” he shook his head, “You are here because Alana Bloom and I agree that there is more to your story that you should be allowed to tell. At your own pace.”

“Okay,” Ophelia nodded, “‘More to my story’. That awfully dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Nothing is too dramatic, I think, for this situation. What’s truly dramatic is killing twenty girls within a period of ten minutes with a butcher knife.”

“Yeah, that is pretty dramatic,” Ophelia laughed, but her face had darkened. 

“Tell me,” Hannibal swirled what was left of his wine in his glass, “How have you remained calm?”

Ophelia shrugged, “I don’t know, actually. I do know that killing is bad, and I know that I’ve done a terrible thing. But... somehow it feels like it was what I was supposed to do. Like I was filling some sort of contract with... whoever. I don’t know. I thought there was something wrong with me because I didn’t feel guilty about killing those girls. And I realize now that it was wrong in so many ways, but at the time... it felt good.”

Hannibal _hmph_ -ed, and stood, collecting Ophelia’s empty plate and retreating to the kitchen to clean up. Ophelia followed silently, contemplating Hannibal’s question. She watched him as he cleaned, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled up to his elbows and his broad shoulders hunched over the sink. What was it about Hannibal Lecter that she had been so keen to hide behind? Ophelia knew there had to be a reason, but watching him work in silence, she could not find it.

“Tomorrow,” Hannibal looked up at her, “I will be at my office all day with patients. It will be a long ten hours of appointments, but you are more than welcome to come along. If you choose to stay here, you would be locked in the building, whereas if you do choose to accompany me I will allow you some freedoms around my office.”

“I’d like to come with you,” Ophelia nodded, grinning, “It’ll be interesting, seeing how you work.”

“It’s not as thrilling as you may think,” Hannibal laughed airily through his nose, “My job, however important, is a lot of sitting. And listening.”

“I like sitting and listening,” Ophelia made to help Hannibal with the dishes, but he gently shooed her away, “I’m pretty good at it, actually.”

Hannibal shot her a small, almost unnoticeable grin, then nodded with approval, “Be ready to go at eight sharp. My patients don’t enjoy waiting.”

“Okay, yeah,” Ophelia looked at the clock, “Eight o’clock.” It was eleven. She could get a good night’s sleep and still have time to shower in the morning. With a quick, and slightly awkward, goodnight to Hannibal she turned and hurried up the stairs. She changed out of her prison clothes as quickly as she could, eager to get the smell off of her skin. 

She sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, watching as goosebumps began to appear on her bare skin. She dug through her duffel and pulled on an old t-shirt that she had been given her first day at Chi Omega. It just barely smelled like her roommate’s overbearing Chanel perfume. Ophelia wrinkled her nose at the smell, but resolved to ignore it. She would be under the covers, asleep, within minutes anyway. 

After reluctantly slouching her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth and comb her hair, Ophelia burrowed far beneath the covers so that only a small bit of blonde was visible. The sheets smelled like Hannibal, and for the first time in a while, she felt comforted. 

 

Ophelia woke in a cold sweat. She lay atop the sheets, her limbs splayed out, unable to move. Her head was held in place, facing the pitch black ceiling above her. The walls and floors seemed to swim around her, leaving the bed stranded. 

The ceiling burst to life, loud industrial music blaring through unseen speakers. An octagonal matrix made of small triangles flashed and undulated, and at certain moments images could be seen within the matrix: first a bright white light shining in a dark cave, then a messily drawn diagram of human muscle, and then a beating heart. 

“EVERYTHING CHANGES” flashed across the screen in enormous red letter, accompanied by the rhythmic pulsing of the music. Eight antique coins fell from the top of the image, and as they spun and rotated they transformed into scratched and warped CDs. 

And then the screen was nothing but an enormous bloodshot eye. It seemed to bore into Ophelia’s skin as she tried to struggle free of whatever was holding her. The eye began to quiver and shake, and then was pulled apart, morphing into a scene of a faceless man cooking in a dark kitchen. The man lifted the knife in his hand, as if offering what was stuck on its end to Ophelia. She tried desperately to look away as the same bloodshot eye stared at her again from the tip of the knife. 

“THE DEVIL WILL FEAST ON THE SOULS OF THE WEAK.” These words flashed and pulsed, alternating with the image of the man cooking silently, the eye still twirling and blinking on the end of the blade. 

After that, the sequence of images became random, flashing across the screen with no real meaning. First, an energy-saving lightbulb melted and twisted until it came to resemble a yin-yang symbol. Then, a beating heart appeared onscreen, and then was ripped apart by a pair of rough hands, which then morphed again into feminine hands. A body grew from the hands, a small, slender body, whose features were obscured. 

But then the female figure had a face. Wendy Jones, first floor of Chi Omega. Blood dripped from the corners of her lips. Then it was Kacey Sawyer, room 4B. Blood flowed steadily from a gash in her chest. Emily Dinklage, her favorite sweater blooming red. 2D. Annie DeGroot. Marie Hanso. Bea Klugh. Zoe, Sarah, Raymie. Soon, twenty female figures swam across the ceiling, their figures blurring into one. The single figure in the center of the screen held a butcher knife in her hands. And without warning, it leapt directly toward Ophelia. 

 

“You’re dreaming! Ophelia! Open your eyes!”

Hands clasped her shoulders and brushed across her forehead. Ophelia struck out at the dark silhouette hanging over her bed. She made contact with a jaw. 

The lights in the room suddenly came on, and Ophelia found Hannibal leaning against the wall by the switch, his hand rubbing his jaw. 

“Oh... crap. I am so, so sorry,” Ophelia struggled out of bed. Her legs were tangled in the sheets. 

“Not to worry,” Hannibal shook his head and stood up straight, his silk pajamas and perfectly combed hair unfazed, “Night terror. Can’t say as I blame you.”

Ophelia glanced at the clock. Three o’clock. She felt her face reddening as she hung her head, “Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Hannibal assured her, “I was having trouble sleeping anyway. Thought I would make myself some tea to help myself along. Would you care for some?”

“Sure, thanks,” Ophelia nodded, still feeling rather sheepish. She straightened her sleeping shirt and cotton shorts and padded after Hannibal down the dark hallway. As he did not turn on any lights, Ophelia had to feel her way along behind him until they reached the kitchen. 

“May I ask what you were dreaming about?” Hannibal watched Ophelia in the dim light that he had flicked on as he brought a pot of water to a boil. 

“It was just surreal,” Ophelia ran a hand through her hair, “At first it was just a bunch of random, morbid... _gross_ stuff, but then it got real and terrifying and all the girls at Chi Omega... they were dying right there in front of me. It was the first time I really _looked_ at them and _saw_ them with blood on them and then a black mass came right at me and....”

“Suppressed memories, perhaps,” Hannibal nodded.

“Yeah, maybe,” Ophelia sighed, leaning against the counter, “There was a lot of weird stuff about people being eaten, too. Like an eyeball on a knife and a heart being torn apart,” she blanched and stared up at Hannibal, “Did I eat somebody?”

Hannibal laughed, a deep rich sound quite welcome to Ophelia’s ears, “No, Ophelia, you did not _eat_ your sorority sisters. Or anyone else for that matter. Your mind is just working on overload at the moment. It has the ability to manifest surprising things that often make no sense. Not to worry. You’re safe in my hands.” 

Ophelia looked down at his hands as they worked, pouring tea out of a black kettle into small china glasses. It steamed and bubbled, the smell of mint and citrus wafting to the ceiling. They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their tea. Hannibal studied Ophelia’s face. He watched as her eyes widened with subtle pleasure at the taste of the tea. She yawned and continued to drink, unaware of his eyes drinking her in. 

“Eight o’clock,” Hannibal reminded her, rising and starting toward the doorway. 

“Right,” Ophelia looked over her shoulder and watched him go, “Eight o’clock.” Ophelia sat in solitary silence for a few more minutes. She sipped the tea slowly, taking the opportunity to really study the kitchen. The enormous refrigerator, with two wide doors and an entirely separate drawer for the freezer, took up the vast majority of the wall to her left. Beside it was a spice rack, on which most of the spices were labelled by hand. The countertops were dark marble, and were virtually empty, save a cutting board and a rack of knives. The sight of the knives made her stomach turn, so she took her tea into her hands and headed for her room. 

A light flickered from beneath Hannibal’s bedroom door. Ophelia stopped for a moment, watching the warm light flicker on and off again. She could her his voice, low and muffled, and the sound of paper being ruffled and flipped. She considered knocking; her hand was held poised and her knuckles ready to rap on the thick wood. But she decided against it. With a shake of her head and a toss of her hair, Ophelia retreated into her room. She slept soundly for the rest of the night. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Seven o’clock found Ophelia in good spirits. She rolled out of bed, feeling refreshed despite the short night, and pranced to the bathroom, bag in tow. Hannibal had already emerged from his room; the pleasant sounds of breakfast were audible from downstairs. 

Ophelia relished the opportunity to shower. Soap felt like the world’s greatest invention; she had never felt cleaner after scrubbing every inch of her skin with the stuff.  

As the smell of breakfast intensified, permeating the cocoon of scented lotion and perfumes that Ophelia had created in the bathroom, she pulled on the softest dress in her bag: a blue cotton frock with flowers embroidered on the Peter-Pan-esque collar. She paired it with a pair of simple black flats and an ankle bracelet that was made entirely of tiny silver flowers. It was her favorite, and only, piece of jewelry, and she wore it most often when she was dancing. The flash of silver always encouraged her to leap higher, spin faster, and turn more smoothly. Ophelia then proceeded to twist her hair up into a loosely braided bun and powder a bit of makeup on her face and over the bruises on her neck and wrists. She was ever so grateful that she looked like a woman again, and not a scraggly rat-child. 

Hannibal’s back was to her when she bounded into the kitchen, her hands fiddling with the curled tendrils of blonde that danced around her face. He was already dressed in a dapper suit, his hair combed neatly back. 

“Morning!” Ophelia chirped, surprised by just how cheery her voice sounded. 

Hannibal threw a quick glance over his shoulder, nodding cordially to her, “Good morning, Ophelia. How was the rest of your night?”

“Better,” Ophelia took notice of Hannibal’s curt glance. It seemed as if he had been trying his hardest to not meet her eye. 

“Eggs Benedict,” Hannibal turned quickly, sliding a steaming place across the counter toward her, “of sorts. My own recipe. Fresh squeezed juice as well.”

“Awesome,” Ophelia dug in immediately, her stomach nearly jumping up her throat to get at it, “Where did you learn to cook like this?”

Hannibal laughed through his nose, “Like I said before, I am rather particular about what I put in my body. And in the bodies of my guests, which I do not have often, I must admit. I suppose experimentation did the trick. And all the best ingredients, of course. I do enjoy cooking for my small group of acquaintances, though. They share my finer tastes.” 

Ophelia nodded, not wanting to talk through the enormous mouthful of food that she was chewing. She washed it down with the glass of orange juice that Hannibal had slid toward her, then watched him as he started on his own plate. He glanced up at her once, and her eyes immediately darted back to the half-full glass. 

“Roses,” Hannibal quipped before taking a swig of juice. 

Ophelia looked up at him again, one eyebrow raised, “What?”

“Your hair,” Hannibal took his empty plate and set it in the sink, glancing at the clock, “smells of cherry blossoms.”

“Oh yeah,” Ophelia laughed, “Shampoo.” She downed the rest of her juice as shebegan to clean up her plate and silverware. Hannibal watched her out of the corner of his eye as she stood next to him, scrubbing the remnants of her breakfast off of the plate and placing it delicately into the dishwasher. She was much shorter than him; the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. He watched the top of her head while she worked away, silent and surprisingly normal. 

“Shall we be off, then?” Hannibal exited the room, making for the entrance hall where his keys, wallet, and appointment book were all neatly stacked on a small glass table. 

Seeing as she no longer had a purse, wallet, or cellphone to call her own, Ophelia made her way out of Hannibal’s sleek black car empty-handed. He held the door open for her, and she nodded politely as she slipped inside, the tinted windows instantly turning the inside of the car to night. 

After a few moments of uneasy silence, Hannibal reached for the radio, flipping it the knob to the first channel that wasn’t solely static. 

“Tragedy has struck, folks. We just can’t seem to catch a break, ” the radio blared, “Twenty Arizona State University sorority girls were killed two nights ago, authorities report. No names have been released, but a suspect is said to be in custody at this very moment. In fact, those are the only details that have been released to the public, but the team as WKEZ one-oh-two point nine is here to keep you updated. You heard it here first, folks.”

Ophelia felt heat rising in her cheeks and salty water pooling in her eyes. She looked out of the window, trying her hardest not to show her distress as Hannibal quickly changed the channel. And there for a moment she had started to believe she was escaping her fate. 

As if Hannibal had heard her thoughts, he patted her on the shoulder and assured her, “Not to worry. You’ll get to tell your story. It’ll all be fine in the end.”

Ophelia looked back at Hannibal, who had resumed driving in silence. She shook her head and trilled her lips, accepting that, though she had committed the unthinkable, this man could help her. This man who, for some reason, she had been bent on seeing. 

“Sure,” she breathed. If, in one of her memory-lost moments, she had decided to trust Hannibal Lecter, she could do it now. 

 

Hannibal’s office was comprised of two rooms: a small waiting chamber, and an enormous, open, atrium-like space filled top to bottom with bookshelves, statues, and various works of art. Near the back of the room was his desk, a wide mahogany piece of work with books, papers, and folders tucked neatly into drawers and organized stacks. A leather chair sat in wait behind the desk, just the right height and width for Hannibal’s tall, strong frame. 

“No secretary?” Ophelia glanced over her shoulder at Hannibal.

He shook his head, “I’ve found that this is a rather solitary occupation.”

In the center of the room, illuminated by two ceiling-to-floor bay windows, were two chairs and a table. One, for patients, was a luxurious chaise lounge. Across from it was a leather chair similar to the one behind the desk. Only this one was stationary and faced directly at where the patient would be sitting. Beside that was a small table that Ophelia presumed was used to make notes on. 

The upper half of the room was accessed by a set of stairs flanked with tribal statues. These stairs led to a balcony overlooking the office, and was also full of books, art, and dignified-looking reading nooks. 

“This place is so serious!” Ophelia stood before a particularly odd wrought iron piece of artwork. It looked as if it had been banged up at some point in its stationary life, “You don’t play around, huh?”

Hannibal smiled down at the papers that he was shuffling through at his desk, “Not with my clients, no. The first of which should be arriving any minute now.”

“I’ll go up there,” Ophelia started up the stairs, “Do you want me to... do anything?”

“No,” Hannibal shook his head and looked at his watch, then up at Ophelia, “Peruse my selection of books, if you’d like. I’m afraid not much will interest you.”

Ophelia started down a long row of bookshelves, running her finger along the shelf as she went. She stopped at a particularly thick looking book and smiled, “ _Great Dialogues of Plato_.”

“That’s a bit-”

“‘And what, Socrates, is the food of the soul? Surely, I said, knowledge is the food of the soul.’ Right?” Ophelia grinned, her thumb tracing the spine of the book. 

Hannibal’s impassive face turned dumbfounded for a split second, “That is... correct. Sorority girl turned philosophical thinker?”

Ophelia laughed, “Sorority girl who was bored enough to take a Greek philosophy class summer of sophomore year.”

Hannibal chuckled and turned away from her as she plopped down into one of the chairs closest to the back of the balcony. She held the book open in her hands as she watched Hannibal open the door, letting in his first patient of the day. 

The man was short and squat, with a kind of Pillsbury look about him. His shiny bald head could surely serve as a mirror if she squinted hard enough, Ophelia reckoned. 

“Good morning, Mr. Burton,” Hannibal shook the man’s hand as they sat down across from each other. 

“Dr. Lecter,” the man chortled, “Please, call me Barry. Am I going to have to remind you every time?”

Hannibal cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with calling the man by his first name, “Barry. How are you feeling?”

“Well, Doctor, I’m feeling pretty damn tired right about now,” Barry leaned back on the chaise, “The dreams haven’t stopped any.”

“Are they the same as before?”

“No, actually,” Barry sat up again, “last night’s was different. It was more vivid than the others. I woke up feeling so drained.”

Hannibal nodded, “Tell me about it.”

“Well, in it I’m a writer. That’s accurate to real life. But I’m not a good writer in the dream. I’ve been having a lot of trouble, so my wife, son, and I travel to this old hotel during the winter months so I can be alone to work on my writing and earn a little cash on the side. It’s so weird, there’s all these ghosts and my kid and wife start freaking out because we get snowed in. And my kid gets sick and starts acting not like himself because, ya’ know, there’s spirits in the hotel, right?”

Ophelia frowned, furrowing her eyebrows, waiting for Hannibal to cut the man off. He was obviously messing with Hannibal. 

Barry continued, “So then _I_ start going crazy, too! I start seeing these ghosts, and some of them are having a goddamn _costume_ party in the middle of the hotel! And then, the ghosts must be real persuasive or somethin’, because they convince me I need to take an axe to my wife and kid! Anyway, I get my hands on an axe and-”

“Excuse me?” Ophelia stood, leaning over the railing, “Hi, yeah, up here.”

Barry and Hannibal both turned to look at her with equally perplexed expressions on their faces. 

“Who’s that?” Barry pointed to her, as if she was one of the ghosts he had so eloquently been describing. 

“She-” Hannibal began, but Ophelia cut him off. 

“What you’re describing, that’s literally the plot of _The Shining_. Like, exactly.”

“Barry, I apologize,” Hannibal stood, holding a hand out to Ophelia as if to urge her to disappear. 

“No, uh, Doctor Lecter, hear me out,” Ophelia began to descend the long stairs, “In the dream, did you, at any point, meet a guy named Lloyd?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact I did!” Barry stared at her, astounded, as she approached, her skirt swishing smartly as she walked. 

“Did he give you a drink?” Ophelia stood between him and Hannibal, who was still standing, his lips pursed, “Bourbon on the rocks, maybe?”

Barry spluttered and fumbled for words, “You’re right! She’s right!” He looked past her to Hannibal, who remained motionless. 

“Sir, I apologize for interrupting your time with Doctor Lecter,” Ophelia patted the man’s sweater vested shoulder kindly, “But I couldn’t help but notice your dream bears astriking similarity to the movie. Have you ever seen it? It’s one of my favorites.”

“I watched it last night before I went to bed,” Barry shrugged, “But the dream was still terrifying.”

Ophelia nodded, “One time I watched this movie called _Killer Clowns From Outer Space_ when I was sick, and when I fell asleep I dreamed that I was in a corn field and clowns dressed like aliens started falling from the sky.”

Barry burst into overly zealous laughter, “Oh, man, Doctor Lecter, this lady’s a hoot! I bet she’s right! I don’t know why it got to me so bad, though. I really do have night terrors, though.”

“Yeah, me too,” Ophelia nodded, “sometimes. But I found that a cup of tea after those dreams seem to do the trick.”

“You’re a lucid dreamer, Barry,” Hannibal spoke up, “Perhaps try a few nights without such films before sleeping and see how you do.”

“And tea,” Ophelia smiled sweetly, and Hannibal nodded curtly. 

“Great!” Barry seemed thoroughly satisfied, though he had been in the office for under ten minutes, “Thanks a bunch, Doctor. You and your assistant are something. Next week?”

“Same time next week, Barry,” Hannibal shook the man’s hand all the way to the door, and after his bald head was out of sight, Ophelia burst into laughter. 

“That guy was ridiculous!” she snorted, “Does he feed you movie plots every week?”

Hannibal was still for a moment, then he turned to Ophelia, his face a mixture of embarrassment and irritation, “How did you know such details about that film?”

“Everybody knows that movie,” Ophelia scratched the back of her neck, suddenly worried that Hannibal was upset with her, “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to step on your toes or anything. It’s just that he was totally spouting serious-”

“No need to apologize,” Hannibal shook his head as he walked back over to his desk to check his schedule, “It was quite impressive, actually. I must admit, I am not familiar with that film at all.”

“What?” Ophelia hissed in disbelief, “You’ve never seen... ‘ _Redrum, Redrum!_ ’ You don’t know what that is? God, Hannibal, where have you been? Under a rock?”

He raised one eyebrow at her, “No....”

“Clearly you’ve been somewhere other than Earth for the past forty some-odd years!” Ophelia snorted, climbing the steps to the balcony again, “We’re renting _The Shining_. Soon. And you’re going to learn all the good quotes like every other functioning member of the human race.”

Hannibal smiled down at his appointment book, “Whatever you say. But for now, I would appreciate it if you would let me do my job. Of course, if another one of my clients starts making vague pop culture references during our discussion, by all means jump in.”

At first, Ophelia read his tone as angry and disapproving. But then, before he opened the door to let in the next appointment, he shot a toothy grin up at her. She giggled and buried her nose in the leather bound book, and remained there for the rest of the day. 

 


	6. Chapter 6

When the clock struck six and the last appointment of the day had vacated the office, Ophelia still felt full of vigor, while Hannibal appeared to be worn down significantly. Granted, his suit was still pristinely in order and his perfectly combed hair had not a single flyaway, but his chocolate eyes said otherwise. 

“I have an errand to run,” Hannibal said as they locked the front doors of the office building, “It’ll be a quick stop. Are you up for waiting in the car?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ophelia buckled in and settled back into the seat, “Where are we going?”

“A personal visit,” Hannibal pursed his lips, and Ophelia knew that was all she was going to get out of him. They drove in silence for quite a while, out past any real suburban sprawl. There were lights in the distance though, but she daren’t ask if that was what they were headed toward. 

The building that they stopped in front of was a concrete giant, with tall electrical fences surrounding it and guards at each doorway. The building itself was isolated; its only neighbors were thickets of tall pine trees and underbrush. Hannibal parked the car and, without a word, left Ophelia alone. He approached a pair of the guards, and without any trouble at all, bypassed the electrical fence and entered the dark facility. 

Ophelia squinted, searching in the fading evening light for any sign that would tell her where they were or what Hannibal was doing. She pressed her nose against the glass of the window, cupping her hands around her eyes. 

That was when she saw it. A flash of movement, a blur of sandy hair, the glint of a yin-yang pendant. A man stood amongst the bushes, watching her. With one hand, he made a motion for her to come to him, and with the other, the man instructed her to the silent. Ophelia squinted harder. She knew this man. There was something eerily familiar about him, something that Ophelia could not quite pin. 

Against better judgement, she wrenched herself free of the seatbelt and slipped from the car. Hannibal had forgotten to lock the doors. Ophelia hurried toward the man, paying special mind to avoid the gaze of the guards. But as she approached, the man disappeared into the woods. 

“Hey!” Ophelia hissed, “Hey, you! Who’s there?”

No response. 

After a quick glance over her shoulder, Ophelia took a few tentative steps into the woods, following the rough-hewn path that the man had left. It was immediately much darker, and Ophelia had to take a moment to acclimate to the lack of visibility. 

“I think I know you!” Ophelia called, a bit more loudly now, “Hello? I’m Ophelia Ford! I think I know you from somewhere!”

And then, as soon as she lost sight of the car and the concrete building behind her, something large and solid tackled her, pinning her to the forest floor. An enormous hand clamped down over her mouth while another shone a flashlight down into her eyes. The blonde man was straddling her, his eyes wide and maniacal. The pendant she had seen from the road reflected light into her eyes as it swung down from his neck.She could feel blood trickling down her temple; she had landed directly on the roots of one of the trees that loomed over them.

Ophelia got a brief look at the man, which confused and terrified her even more. She could have sworn she knew him, though she was also sure she had never seen him before in her life. He wore a lab coat, the edges burnt and torn. His hair was the color of molten gold, but it was coated with ruddy clay-like dirt. 

“Hey, sweetie,” the man dropped the flashlight and reached into his pocket, “Got a little something for you here.” He held a syringe in his hand. It was full of deep red liquid that undulated and bubbled every time he moved his hand. 

Ophelia tried to scream, but the man’s hand clamped down tighter on her face, cutting off her supply of air. She kicked her legs, for her arms where pinned beneath the man’s heavy legs. 

“Hold still now, and this’ll go smoothly,” he hissed, and with great difficulty he ripped open the front of Ophelia’s dress, popping off most of the buttons and ripping the embroidered flowers. 

In one deft movement, he stabbed the syringe squarely into Ophelia’s chest. Her breath hitched in her throat and her entire body went rigid. She could feel the liquid from the syringe burning into her chest. Her fingers and toes curled and her back arched against the weight of the man, and a strangled scream stuck in her throat. 

Ophelia’s vision began to blur, but she could still make out the man’s face as he got up. He smiled down at her, confident in the knowledge that she wasn’t going anywhere. 

“Ok now, girly girl,” he sighed, “That wasn’t so bad, was it? No, it wasn’t. Now I’m going to need you to not struggle next-”

“ _OPHELIA!”_ Hannibal’s voice boomed through the woods, and the beams of multiple flashlights shot through the darkness. Ophelia used the last of her strength to crane her neck toward his voice and let out a strangled, wordless cry. A set of guards burst through the trees before Hannibal, running toward where the blonde man had disappeared. Hannibal knelt beside Ophelia, her body still rigid and her back still arched. 

“I’ve got you now,” Hannibal put a bare hand over her chest where the syringe had just been, “You’re safe.”

And as he started to scoop her off of the ground, her body gave a final shudder and she went limp. 

 

“Hannibal, ‘Will Graham’ is not a valid excuse.”

The voice of Alana Bloom drifted up the stairs and into Ophelia’s room. She could just barely make out the words beneath the mountain of blankets and pillows that had been piled atop her body. After a deep breath and an involuntary groan, Ophelia pushed the blankets aside and set her feet gingerly on the floor. 

She looked down at herself. Instead of the blue dress that she remembered putting on, a large red button-down, collared shirt hung loosely over her frame. The tag in the collar was entirely in Italian; this must have been one of Hannibal’s shirts. But why was she wearing it? And why was she so sore?

Then she saw her reflection in the mirror that hung over the dresser. The left side of her forehead and the area surrounding her eye was bruised and busted. Scratches raked down her neck and chest, passing through a great purple bruise that centered around a little red dot. The dot hurt the worst, and when Ophelia pressed her finger against it, the skin around it throbbed and turned white where her fingers had touched it. 

“I know,” Hannibal’s voice was quiet. Ophelia had to strain to hear it. 

“He’s beyond help. I know you were close to Will, but he’s just gone. You know I wanted to believe he could be saved. You know that.”

“I do,” Hannibal sighed after a moment of silence. 

“This girl isn’t beyond help, though,” Alana’s voice dropped, “You’re right about her. There’s more to be learned; we know that for sure now.”

Ophelia opened her bedroom door slowly, wincing when it creaked loudly. All movement from downstairs ceased. She had been heard. Stiffly, Ophelia made for the stairs. She pulled at the shirt, bunching it up around her chest, and willing the welt to disappear before she reached the bottom of the staircase. 

Hannibal and Alana had stood up from their respective chairs, and were watching her descend the stairs, her movements heavy and pained. Alana stayed still, but Hannibal made a move to help her. 

“I’m fine,” Ophelia waved him away, “I’m okay.”

“You’re not,” Hannibal pulled his chair around so that it was closer to her, “Sit.”

“Good morning, Alana,” she forced a smile as she sank into the chair, “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Afternoon, actually. I’m glad to see you’re still in the land of the living,” Alana pursed her lips, nodding, “I should be going, Hannibal. They’re still searching those woods.”

“Alright,” Hannibal glanced at Alana, “We will be here if you have need of us.” He stared at the door for a long while after it had closed behind Alana. Then, slowly, he sat down in the chair that she had just vacated and looked up at Ophelia. 

“Hi,” she scratched the back of her neck, his piercing gaze making her squirm. 

“Why did you do it, Ophelia?” Hannibal leaned forward, the muscles in his back rippling against his tight button-down, “What possessed you do do such a thing?”

“I knew him. I swear, I knew that man. I just... don’t know from where.”

“I am trying to help you,” he clasped his hands together so tightly that his knuckles turned white, “and you are making it quite difficult. How am I supposed to watch over you if I can’t even keep you alive?”

“I’m sorry,” Ophelia looked down at her lap, “I really am. I’m irrational, and stupid, and... and insane. It makes sense, right? Only a total crazy person would run into the woods like that. Alone. At night. I _must_ be a psychopath.”

“You’re not a psychopath, Ophelia, although you may be attracted to them. You’re totally functional, and more or less sane,” he smirked and she rolled her eyes, “Do you remember at all what happened?”

“I remember running into the woods after that man. And then I remember hitting the dirt pretty hard. After that, it’s all a bit fuzzy.”

“Let me lay it out for you, then,” Hannibal’s voice was low, and his usually impassive face had a sort of frenzy to it that only appeared on the faces of predators on the hunt, “You nearly died. That man, whoever he was, pinned you to the ground, ripped open your dress, and stuck you with a syringe full of who knows what. You had a sort of seizure in my arms, then lay unresponsive for a few hours. I had gotten you back here before the violence started,” Hannibal opened the top few buttons on his shirt and pulled it aside, revealing a set of what looked like claw marks raking across his shoulder and down his chest, “After a few hours of violence, you entered a vegetative state, similar to the one you were found in at the dance studio a few days ago. And here you are now.”

Ophelia stared into his eyes as he silently buttoned up his shirt again, her face reddening, her jaw clenching and unclenching, and her hands grasping her hair. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, then buried her face in her shirt, willing the tears to disappear. 

“I suppose this is partly my fault,” Hannibal pursed his lips, “It was me who insisted on stopping at that awful place.”

“No,” Ophelia shook her head, “I feel like that man, whoever he was, would have been wherever I was. I can _feel_ it, like he would have followed me anywhere. How do I know him? And why would he do this? I just feel... so... _crazy_.” She put her face in her hands and took slow, deep breaths. 

“What’s done is done,” Hannibal stood, “Let us both learn from this, shall we? I will refrain from leaving you alone in strange, desolate places when you are prone to dangerous curiosity. And you will, from this moment on, stop chasing after madmen who look vaguely familiar. Yes?”

“Sure, yeah,” Ophelia looked up at Hannibal, who had forced a smile, “I really am sorry.”

“It’s over. Tea?” And just like that, he had forgotten it all. It was as if he saw cases like her every single day. She watched as he went straight into preparing tea, calm and expressionless again. 

Before she joined him, she glanced around the room, lit only by the grey light of a stormy day. Everything was neat and orderly, save a new addition to the glass coffee table that usually was empty. Ophelia leaned over picking up the plastic case and turning it over. 

“ _The Shining_ ,” Ophelia smiled, running her thumb over Jack Nicholson’s face. 

Perhaps Hannibal had been right on the first day of their meeting. Perhaps they could be friends. Perhaps there was more to her story, something that could convince the world, and herself, that she was not crazy. Just an unfortunate victim of some greater plan. 

“So,” Ophelia stiffly made her way into the kitchen, “What are we doing today?”

“ _We_ aren’t doing anything,” Hannibal said as he poured her tea, “I have an appointment to attend to today across town. You have an appointment with that movie you love so much.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw that,” Ophelia cupped the china full of steaming orange tea in her hands and inhaled deeply, “Thanks. You don’t seem like a movie guy.”

Hannibal laughed through his nose, “No, I can’t say I am. The theatre and opera are more my speed.”

“Fancy,” Ophelia raised an eyebrow as she sipped the tea, sticking her pinky finger in the air.

“Of course,” Hannibal leaned against the counter and took a swig of his drink, then said, “I suppose I will have to educate you in the ways of high class entertainment.”

“What, movies aren’t high class?” Ophelia feigned offense, “Doctor Lecter, I am shocked!”

“I suppose you will just have to convince me otherwise,” Hannibal rolled his shoulders, a grin hiding behind his cup, “But for now I must be off. Can I trust you to stay put?” He set his tea down in the sink and shrugged his dapper jacket over his shoulders. 

Ophelia nodded, “I wouldn’t be offended if you locked the doors. But you can trust me.”

“Good,” and with that, Hannibal turned to leave. 

“Wait, I forgot to ask you something!” Ophelia leapt forward, just as Hannibal opened the front door, “Who’s Will Graham?” 

Hannibal was as still as a statue, one hand frozen on the doorknob and the other grabbing at his keys. The only movement came from his eyebrows, pulling together in a hard line. His mouth opened then closed again quickly, and before she could blink, he was out of the door and the lock was turned. Ophelia blinked a few times, shrugged, and returned to the sitting room, where a day of nothingness awaited her. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

“Hannibal, do you remember when we discussed boundaries?” Bedelia du Maurier sat across from him, her legs crossed, and her foot fighting the urge to bob impatiently. She felt like a parent scolding a child. 

“Of course,” Hannibal nodded, “but the circumstances have changed entirely. The boundaries are different here.” 

“How so?”

Hannibal took a deep breath, casting a glance around the familiar space. He and Bedelia had engaged in many a discussion in these very chairs, and not all of them had been pleasant. He was sure this day would join the ranks of the unpleasant. 

“Well,” he began, “This time has every possibility to be different. After learning from Abigail and Will, I understand how impressionable a mind such as hers can be. This is a professional endeavor to help a fellow human being.”

“Let me stop you there,” Bedelia shifted in her seat, “I understand that you may very well be trying, your previous ventures into relationships such as this have turned sour in the end. Once again, you cannot pretend to function as an agent of friendship, or guidance, or whatever empathetic relationship you see this turning into. The simple truth is that this girl is a project.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal sighed, “But in order to take up a project, you must have a sense of passion for whatever you are taking up. Correct?”

“True, but, in the end what is there to accomplish here? This is a fatal charity case Hannibal, and you know it. This is a prime case of capture bonding as well. It’s been an animalistic survival tool for a million years. A passive psychological response to a new ‘master’. You’ve turned this into a basic animal survival scenario.” Bedelia du Maurier knew Hannibal lecter better than anyone, perhaps even better than himself. She was always quite aware of his tendency to skirt the truth in conversation. He told many half-truths and flat out lies, and Bedelia could spot them in an instant. She knew of his God complex; he believed firmly that he could, essentially, play the puppet master with every relationship that he entered into. She also suspected that he took advantage of this in a dangerously obsessive way. Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs had been prime examples. 

“If anything, I am helping her,” Hannibal leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands in his lap. He cocked his head to the side, studying Bedelia as she recounted the details of Ophelia’s case. 

“Helping her by, what, proving her innocence? If that is your only goal, then have at it. But obviously there is more to the story. You’re building a relationship.”

“She is... gentle,” Hannibal chose his words carefully, “Like a bird. A sparrow, if you will. Small, innocent.”

“And in that way, quite breakable,” Bedelia nodded, “But I do understand. In the wake of Abigail and Will I can understand your desire to overcompensate.”

“Is that what I’m doing? Overcompensating?”

“In a way, yes. You seem to be acting quite out of character, Hannibal. You are the owl to her sparrow, in some ways. But in other ways, you could be a sort of nest. She obviously feels safe in your presence, and obviously believes in your intentions to help her. But is she _too_ innocent?”

“I don’t need you to psychoanalyze Ophelia,” Hannibal’s tone was unintentionally defensive, “I truly believe that I can help her. By guiding her, or simply letting her act as a free agent, I intend to do what I can to keep her from meeting whatever demise she may face.”

“So instead of becoming a nest or a bird of prey, you are turning into a Holden Caulfield type character?”

Hannibal considered the question, gazing past Bedelia’s blonde head and out of the window behind her. The sky was a tumultuous mixture of grays and blacks. In the distance, a fork of lightning cut through, turning them, for a glorious moment, a fantastic shade of purple.

“Not so much,” he finally answered, “I am not attempting to confine her, to be her ‘catcher in the rye’. My intentions are less selfish.”

“They are?” Bedelia’s voice dripped with skepticism, “Neither of us are convinced of that, Hannibal.”

He thought for a moment, “What are you implying, exactly?”

“Your quest for companionship, paired with the lack of any ability to maintain it is what I am referring to. I don’t blame you for it, but I doubt you have the capacity to feel such companionship.”

Hannibal was silent, “She is innocent.”

“The most innocent person you have come into contact with in your life, apparently,” Bedelia looked at the clock over Hannibal’s head. Their time was almost up. 

“Which is why I must guide her.”

“Which is why,” she sighed, “you must tread lightly. Your meticulously constructed person suit must stay firmly in place, no matter what you end up choosing.” She knew enough of him to see the truth. She always had.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The house was silent when Hannibal returned. He stood in the entry hall, waiting to hear movement or to be greeted, but the only sounds audible were the steady rush of rain and the occasional rumble of thunder. Hannibal shrugged off his coat and folded it over his shoulder, stepping lightly into the sitting room. So soon he had grown used to the sounds of another soul in the house; it was almost eery to be met with silence. 

But there Ophelia lay, curled underneath a blanket on the sofa, her body still draped in his oldest dress shirt. Her long mess of golden hair fell like a waterfall over her back and over the edge of the cushion. Her fingers, barely visible beneath long sleeves, lay relaxed, one hand limp on the floor and the other curled beneath her chest. The credits of _The Shining_ rolled quietly on the television, casting a glow across Ophelia’s face. 

Hannibal relished this opportunity to truly see her, to truly study her. Ophelia’s face was naturally cheerful; even in sleep she had a smile on her plump, pink lips. He counted the freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose and out onto her cheekbones. Her eyelashes fluttered as she dreamed. They were peaceful dreams, Hannibal hoped. 

For a moment, Hannibal did know know what to do with her, or himself for that matter. Ophelia was so vulnerable, so innocent. He had read in a book once that mammals only slept soundly in the presence of one in which they had placed complete trust. 

_I doubt you have the capacity to feel such companionship._  

Bedelia’s accusation floated through Hannibal’s mind as he watched Ophelia, her chest rising and falling with steady, deep breaths. He frowned, sighing. A voice in his head told him to prove Bedelia wrong, but he had never sought to defy her before. She had been the closest thing he had to a friend, though she would deny it. Perhaps Bedelia could be wrong. Perhaps Ophelia would be the companion Hannibal needed. 

But did he _want_ a companion? He had been perfectly content functioning on his own. His agendas proved more successful when he was alone; Will Graham had been proof of that. 

Still, Hannibal could not deny his urge to protect Ophelia. Keeping her close would do so while he, Alana, and Jack Crawford straightened out her case. The drugging incident in the woods had given them all hope that perhaps Ophelia was not in her right mind while committing the murders of her sorority sisters. But proving it would be a challenge, and Ophelia would not leave Hannibal’s care until then. 

Quite frankly, he was alright with that, though he daren’t admit it aloud. He was safe within his own head. It had always been so. 

Hannibal leaned down so that his face, ever expressionless, was level with Ophelia’s. He inhaled deeply once more, this time through his nose. Her hair still smelled of roses and her skin had a floral sweetness to it as well. It was overwhelmingly pleasant, like the finest of perfumes. 

After basking in the smell for a moment, he carefully shimmied his arms underneath her and scooped her up against his chest. She sighed contentedly in her sleep as he stood, carefully making his way toward the stairs. 

Ophelia’s head lolled to the side so that her forehead rested against his chest. Her slender fingers grabbed onto the front of his shirt and held fast. Hannibal stopped for a moment, fearful that he had woken her. But she stayed still, her head resting against him and her hands holding on tight. He stared down at her, his eyes wide and wondering. For the second time, she rendered him unable to think, unable to move. 

He shook his head. What had come over him? He was Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Immovable, impassive, strong. Solitary. Cold. Calculating. Bedelia had been perfectly correct. Hannibal Lecter cared for no one. There was no way he would allow anyone to penetrate that mask. 

Hannibal took long strides to reach Ophelia’s bedroom, setting her down and covering her bare legs with a blanket in one swift motion. He willed himself not to look back at her as he retreated, closing the door with a _click_ that was full of finality. 

Outside an owl hooted in the darkness. 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Ophelia sat squarely in the leather chair at the front of Hannibal’s office. She resisted the urge to pick at the frayed parts of her denim shorts, or trace the swirling pattern on her tank top. Instead, she stared at the wall opposite her, on which a ladder was propped. Hannibal paced before her, past Alana and Jack who had joined them. It was rather early; far too early for anyone reasonable to be awake. So naturally, the four of them were up and about, preparing to execute a plan that Hannibal had concocted. 

Jack Crawford held a recorder up to his mouth and muttered, “August twenty-third. Six a.m. Hannibal Lecter’s office. Subject Ophelia Ford.”

It was a clear late-summer day outside Doctor Lecter’s office. The sky was still tinged with pink and orange, and the light of the sun reflected happily off the top of the brick building surrounding the office. But on the other side of the glass, where the small group had convened, the sky was much different. Dark clouds hung over all of their heads. All except Hannibal, who seemed quite content at the scene playing out before him. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Alana looked away from the window and at Hannibal, who had come to a stop next to her, his expressionless face on Ophelia. 

“It is the only way,” the shoulders of his dark blue and green checkered barely moved when he shrugged. He adjusted his tie and looked down at the floor. Alana turned back to the window. 

“Okay, Ophelia,” Jack knelt before her, “Do you understand what we’re doing here?”

“Yes,” her eyes stayed locked onto the ladder. She would not let fear cloud her. 

“Explain it to me,” he held the recorder underneath her mouth.

“Why?” Ophelia tried her best to keep her face blank, imitating Hannibal, “We all know what’s going to happen.”

“For the record, kid.”

“Fine,” Ophelia sighed, “Alana recreated the drug using the sample Doctor Lecter found on my dress. You’re going to inject it into me and see what happens.”

“Correct,” Jack stood and continued to talk into the recorder, “The drug cocktail in question contains high doses os Scopolamine, Gammahydroxybutyrate, Methamphetamine, and large doses of caffeine. It acts as a stimulant, steroid, and a sort of mind control drug, to use layman’s terms. Under the influence of the drug, Ophelia seems to have experienced a range of emotions, ranging from extreme violence to extreme clarity. Under the watch of Alana Bloom, Hannibal Lecter, and I, she may give us an idea of how it effected her and the murders she committed under the influence of the cocktail.”

“We should begin,” Hannibal interrupted, “While the subject is still willing.”

Ophelia snorted, “The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go to sleep.”

“This is the closest thing to torture I’ve ever done,” Alana hissed as she passed Hannibal, retrieving the syringe, “I’m beginning to doubt the legality of this. I was with you the last time she was pumped full of this stuff, Hannibal. It’s abuse. It’s sadism.”

“Ophelia trusts my judgement,” Hannibal cocked his head to the side, waiting for her to confirm.

“Yeah, yeah I do,” Ophelia nodded, her back straightening and the bun atop her head flopping with the jerky movement, “I want to do what I can. Prove my innocence, and everything.”

“Exactly,” Hannibal smiled at Alana, “She knows that it’s what needs to be done.”

Alana sighed and rubbed her hands over her face, “You always did find the most unethical way of doing things.”

“Perhaps,” he turned back to Ophelia, who had closed her eyes, “But they have proved to be quite effective.”

“Let’s hope so.” 

Jack turned to them, “Ready?”

Ophelia nodded. 

“Tie down her hands,” Hannibal muttered, “and ankles.”

Alana took to pacing between the windows and Hannibal’s desk. She watched as Jack tied her down with four sets of cable from the closet in the corner of the room. Ophelia took deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. As Jack roughly tugged on the knots covering her wrists and ankles, she stared intently at the space beside Hannibal’s face. He remained still, silent, and unmoving. 

“Try to stay with us,” Jack knelt before Ophelia, “Tell us what you see, what you feel, and everything you’re thinking, alright?”

Ophelia nodded, “Yeah. Okay.”

Jack looked from Ophelia to Alana, and then lastly to Hannibal, who nodded with approval as well. He tapped the side of the syringe, holding it in front of his face. The thick burgundy liquid laughed poisonously at them. Ophelia could just imagine it dripping from the fangs of a viper. 

He pulled her top up over her stomach and pulled a section of tanned skin taught with his forefingers; her stomach was the least scarred part of her torso. And then, with a swift prick, Jack stabbed the needle into her abdomen. 

The world around Ophelia froze. She felt her jaw wrench open, but Jack’s hand, Alana’s pacing, and Hannibal’s tapping foot all ceased motion. Like clay cracking under heat, every edge in the room began to crack, fray, and break away, leaving red-tinged blurs in their wake. Ophelia’s eyes rolled back in her head and her limbs began to shake. Her back arched and her legs jerked inward. 

“Ophelia?” Jack asked, grabbing ahold of her shoulders and wrenching her froward, “Can you hear me?”

A strangled yelp scratched at Ophelia’s throat. Jack took it as agreement, thought Alana and Hannibal saw it for what it was: a cry of pain. 

“Who was the man who attacked you?” Jack tilted her head toward him, “Is he behind this? How is he controlling you?” Ophelia’s eyes were still rolled back in her head and her jaw was stuck open at an unnatural angle. 

And then, she bit at him. The chair nearly fell over as she lunged forward, her eyes rolling and her arms wrenched behind her. Jack fell backwards, scrambling away as Ophelia spat and snarled like a feral animal. 

“Ophelia,” Hannibal took a step forward, holding his hands out to her, “Listen to my voice. You know who I am. You know who you are.”

Her body fell back into a slouch on the chair. Her eyes stared upward, still twitching. She seemed alert; as alert as one could be under such influence. 

“Jack,” Hannibal stepped back again, allowing him to resume his questioning. Jack got to his feet, brushed himself off, and approached Ophelia again, who was still staring at the ceiling. 

“Ophelia Ford,” Jack started again, “Agent Jack Crawford, here. You’re in there, and I need you to tell me what you see. Why did you kill those girls? I know you didn’t do it on your own. We’re all sure you’re not the type to do it anyway. So tell me. What’s behind this. _Who_ is behind this?”

Ophelia sighed through her mouth, then spoke, her speech slurred, “I’m not a bad person.”

“I know,” Jack agreed. 

“You don’t know,” Ophelia’s head lolled to the side, then back to Jack, “I’m a great person. I do so much for other people,” She sounded as if she were just waking up from a rather lengthy and in-depth surgery, “My dad? Do you know my dad?”

“You haven’t told us much about your dad,” Jack said, “You told me once that he did medical research. That’s all.”

Ophelia blew out a heavy breath through her lips, “That’s... that _bullshit_. My dad... my dad is a bad man....”

“What did he do, Ophelia? Why is he a bad man,” Jack looked back at Alana and Hannibal, who were at attention. 

She seemed to mull the question over for a moment, then sighed, “Dad liked to make movies sometimes. Sometimes he made me watch them.”

“What were they about?”

“It was just one in the end,” Ophelia sighed, her head lolling back so that Jack was left to talk to her neck, “We are the causes of our own suffering.”

“Sorry?” Jack took a step toward her. 

“The Devil will eat the souls of the weak.”

“Ophelia?”

“Everything changes!”

“Ophelia.”

“Lying on your bed, looking at the ceiling, waiting for something to happen. Aren’t you, Ophelia? Waiting for something to happen? And knowing all the time that you were meant for something better, Ophelia. Feeling it. Wanting it. Ophelia, Ophelia, Ophelia. You can help me get it. But how much can you take? How much can _he_ take, Ophelia? You’ll find out for me.”

“Ophelia, who-”

“How much can you take before you snap?”

“Ophelia, who said those things to you?”

Her head snapped forward, and she was somewhere else entirely. Ophelia’s eyes were wide and her nostrils were flared. She clenched and unclenched her fingers and leaned back in her chair, trying her hardest to pull her legs to her chest. 

“Get, get, _get_ these glasses _off_ of my face; I don’t want to wear them anymore,” she whimpered, pulling against the binds. 

“What glasses?” Jack leaned down so that his face was inches from hers. 

“They hurt my eyes. They hurt my eyes when the movie comes on, Dad!”

Jack turned to Hannibal and Alana, “I can hear her heart. It’s going crazy.”

That was when Ophelia started screaming, “No more needles! Dad, please! No more! No more! I don’t want to do it! I won’t hurt anybody! Turn it off, turn it off!” And then her whole body began to convulse. Not like before, though. Before, her body was moving on account of the drugs. But now, Ophelia’s body was shutting down. She was panicking. She was remembering too much.

“Ophelia!” Jack tried to hold her head steady, “Alana, Hannibal, untie her.”

“Wait,” Hannibal stepped forward, pushing Jack out of the way, “Let me calm her down.” Jack stepped back, letting Hannibal kneel before Ophelia. 

“Please,” Ophelia whimpered to Hannibal, “Please make him stop.” Her pupils were so far dilated that only a sliver of mossy green outlined them. Little golden wisps flew around her face like a wonky halo. 

“Listen to me,” Hannibal stroked her hair and cupped her face in his hands, “Tell me where you are. And who you are.”

“What?” Her pupils began to shrink as she focused on Hannibal’s face. For just a sliver of a moment, he appeared to have great black antlers.

“Tell me who you are.”

“Ophelia Ford.”

“Good,” Hannibal nodded, “Alana, untie her hands, if you will. Ophelia, tell me where you are.”

“Phoenix.”

“Wrong,” Hannibal shook his head, “You are in Baltimore, Maryland.”

“What?” Ophelia tried to pull her head out of his strong hands, but he held her fast. 

“You’ve been dreaming,” Hannibal assured her, “You’re in my office. Do you know who I am?”

Ophelia stared long and hard at him, her pupils shrinking with every passing second, “You’re Hannibal Lecter.”

“Correct. Now tell me again. Who are you? Where are you?” Alana had removed all four cords binding Ophelia to the chair. She wrung them in her hands, watching.

“I’m Ophelia Ford,” she nodded, still unsure, Hannibal’s hands moving with her, “and I’m in Baltimore. In your office.”

“You’re safe,” Hannibal assured her. And then Ophelia was back with them entirely. Her breathing was no longer labored, her brow was no longer dotted with sweat, and her eyes were once again malachite green. 

She threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around his neck. For a moment, he let her, patting her noncommittally on the back and stroking her hair, which had fallen out of its ribbon and over her shoulders. As Jack made more notes on his voice recorder, Alana knelt beside Hannibal and Ophelia, stroking her hair with much more feeling than Hannibal. 

“She needs to eat,” Hannibal stood, allowing Alana to take over. She ushered Ophelia back into the chair and began to dab at the sweat on her forehead. 

“We can take it from here,” Alana assured him, “Take her home. Let her sleep, eat, whatever. She deserves it.”

“Did I do okay?” Ophelia looked up at them, her voice weak, “Did I help? I know I lost it for a moment, but I got it back under control, I think. I tried. I feel sick, though.”

“You pushed through it,” Alana squeezed her hand, “I think this is going to be a game changer. Great job, Ophelia.”

“We’ll let you know as soon as we,” Jack glanced at Ophelia hastily as he joined the small group, “find anything. On her father. It’s obvious he’s behind this in some way. We’ll start by searching Phoenix directories and go from there.”

“Okay,” Alana followed Jack toward the door, “Hannibal, we’ll be in touch.”

“Please do,” Hannibal shut the door behind them, his face serene. Before he turned back to face Ophelia, he collected himself. Below the surface, serenity was a thing of pure imagination. 

“Could we go?” Ophelia tried to stand, wobbling sickly, “Please? I’m kind of hungry.”

“Of course,” Hannibal kept his composure, “Let me help you.” He hastened over to where she teetered like a foal feeling its legs for the first time. She grabbed onto the sleeve of his jacket and took a few steps forward. After a few more steps, Ophelia’s knees buckled and she let out a barrage of halfhearted curses. 

“Sorry,” she hoisted herself back up, using Hannibal’s sleeve again. This time as she walked, Hannibal rested his hand on the small of her back, flinching a bit every time she stumbled. She truly did look as if she could fall over any minute and sleep for days, as she had only a week before. 

They were silent in the car, mostly because Ophelia was fighting sleep. Her body felt like lead, and her head an enormous anchor, holding it to the window of Hannibal’s car.

“You’ve done an excellent job,” Hannibal conceded, “It must have been hard on you. But this voluntary service is what may be the missing puzzle piece that Alana and Jack Crawford needed.”

“I hope so,” Ophelia sighed, “It had better be worth it.” She cradled her stomach, flinching when her fingers found the place that Agent Crawford had injected her. A spot of blood had seeped through her shirt there. At least it had been an old shirt. 

They ate in silence perpetuated by Hannibal. He fixed her a quick meal, forcing her to eat in silence while he ate across the table. For the first time in a while, he felt guilt; every once in a while she would glance up at him from her bowl of soup, but would immediately go back to silently sipping the broth when she saw that he was watching her. 

Hannibal licked his lips, his brow furrowed and his resolve wavering, “Alana Bloom could use a friend, I feel. As could you.”

“What?” Ophelia muttered through her food. 

“The opera is in a week,” Hannibal set his silverware down, kicking himself beneath the table, “You should come along. It would do you good to socialize with people other than the FBI and a psychiatrist.”

Ophelia shrugged, “I like you, though. And Alana. Not too sure about Jack, though.”

Hannibal laughed curtly, “Everyone feels that way, I believe. But it would still be beneficial for you to get out. Experience some culture outside films on my couch and books concerning the philosophies of Plato.”

“Sure,” Ophelia nodded, trying her hardest to remain alert through the conversation, though her eyelids were insisting upon sleep, “Never been to an opera before.” 

“I usually entertain a small group of guests afterwards,” Hannibal picked up his silverware again, a smile playing on his lips. He relished nothing more than the times spent cooking for his small group of acquaintances. Perhaps it would lighten the dreary mood of the house. Cooking always seemed to do that for Hannibal; each room was alight with aromas while the sounds of Bach and Mozart aided in the creative culinary process. Just thinking of it put Hannibal in a much better mood. 

“I could help you cook if you wanted,” Ophelia shrugged, noting his immediate lift in mood. 

Hannibal looked down at his bowl, choosing to stay silent. He was unsure of whether or not Ophelia should be allowed to disturb the sanctity of the kitchen. 

“Why don’t you get some rest,” Hannibal sighed, changing the subject quickly, “You and I have a full day of appointments tomorrow.”

Ophelia rolled her eyes and forced a laugh, “Oh, fun! More Plato for me, then.”

“I guess so,” Hannibal stared down the length of the mahogany table at Ophelia, letting a minuscule slip across his face, “But for now, sleep.” 

He helped her up the stairs; her legs still seemed to be made of gelatin. Once she was safely in her room, he relaxed, shrugging off his jacket and shoes and padding down the stairs to the kitchen. He cleaned in silence, imagining Ophelia working alongside. Cutting the meat, washing the vegetables, or even simply setting the table. Something about the image of Ophelia working with food made Hannibal excited. Perhaps she would share his passion for exotic culinary tastes.

After all, he did quite enjoy having friends for dinner. 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Ophelia sat in Hannibal’s office, her legs dangling over the edge of the balcony and a book in her hands. Having finished the book on Plato, she moved on to lighter fare: a book of nordic folk tales and legends. It was rather dark reading for a sunny Tuesday, but she supposed it fit in well with the overall atmosphere of the office. 

“But Doctor Lecter,” the small, plump man on the chaise lounge complained, “I’m still losing time. I’m still flashing from place to place in my head like I fell asleep and woke up somewhere.”

“I once had a friend who suffered from your problem,” Hannibal said, smoothing the front of his brown suit, “All he did to solve it was keep track of himself.”

“How did he do that?”

Hannibal handed the man the leather book that sat closed on the table beside him, “A journal. Keep a log of every-” He was cut off by a crash against the window. The three of them jumped, and Ophelia dropped her book face up on the creature Dvalinn, the stag that “ate the World Tree”. She leapt to her feet and hurried down the stairs, to the window, which was now splattered with blood. 

Ophelia pressed her face against the window, “It was a bird. Oh, no.”

Hannibal joined her, leaving the squat man behind, “A sparrow. Died instantly, I would imagine. Probably disoriented by the sunlight.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Ophelia’s voice was small. She felt a mighty sadness for the bird. As Hannibal returned to his patient, Ophelia stepped out into the cool late summer air. It was cooler than it had been for the past weeks; Ophelia relished the opportunity to wear sweaters. Over the years, she had acquired a collection of oversized sweaters for days like these, when the air had a bite to it, and the wind seemed bent to have its way. It was especially cold now, what with the death of the poor sparrow. 

Ophelia pulled her hands from the long sleeves of her grey sweater and knelt down by the tiny brown bird. She tenderly turned it over so that she could examine it. The poor thing’s body was riddled with cuts. One particularly large gash covered its throat; it was still dribbling blood onto the grass. Ophelia looked up at the window where it had made contact, then up at the sky, judging where it must have flown from. She looked across the street, and squinted at the trees, attempting to discern whether or not its nest was nearby. 

“No matter,” she sighed, taking it into her hands and standing, “You’re done for now anyway, little bird. Sorry it had to end this way for you.”

Ophelia carried it back into the office and, ignoring the protests of the spindly woman who had just entered, carried it through the room and to the closet in the back, where she retrieved an empty shoebox and a sharpie. 

“What are you doing?” Hannibal asked, watching her as his patient collected herself. 

“Gotta bury it,” Ophelia looked up at Hannibal as if the answer had been obvious. 

“Ugh,” the woman tittered, “How can you touch that thing?”

Ophelia frowned, “It’s dead. It’s not going to peck at you or anything.”

“But the germs. It’s disgusting. You’re a gross little girl, aren’t you?”

“And you’re rude,” Ophelia took a step toward the woman, “I hate rude people.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw Hannibal grin. 

The woman rolled her eyes and shooed Ophelia away. Not wanting to ruin an appointment any further for Hannibal, she hurried outside, box, bird, and marker in hand. 

Ophelia plopped down outside the window and set out the preparations for the bird funeral. With her hands, she began to tear at the ground, digging a hole large enough for the box. Once her hands and her jeans were thoroughly covered in thick brown dirt, Ophelia began to decorate the shoebox, covering it with little flowers, hearts, and swirls. 

After she placed the bird in the box and replaced the top, she sighed, “I guess I should name you.... Clarice. You were a cute little bird, Clarice. Your feathers were the brownest of them all, I’m sure,” Ophelia looked at her hands, “I’ve never talked at a bird funeral before, but I was the last one to speak to you, I think. I guess it’s appropriate.” 

“Excuse me,” a languid voice startled Ophelia, “What are you doing?”

Ophelia looked up at the redheaded woman who stood over her, “Um, I’m burying this bird. It flew into the window.”

“Why?” the woman flipped a curl out of her face, “It’s just a bird.”

Ophelia shrugged, “Got nothing better to do, I guess.”

“You were in Hannibal Lecter’s office?” she peered over Ophelia’s head and through the window at Hannibal, who had not looked away from his patient. 

“Yeah,” Ophelia stood, leaving the box uncovered in the makeshift grave, “Who are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Freddie Lounds,” she held out her hand, but retracted it immediately, “I’m a colleague of Doctor Lecter’s.” 

“Oh,” Ophelia shook the dirt from her hands and kicked a bit of dirt into the grave, “He never mentioned you. But I _have_ heard your name somewhere before.”

“I’m a journalist,” Freddie scrutinized Ophelia’s face, “Maybe you’ve read one of my articles.”

Ophelia shrugged, “Maybe.”

“You’re Ophelia Ford, right?” Freddie knelt by Ophelia, her eyes burning, “You’re that girl from Arizona.”

“How do you know who I am?” Ophelia was taken aback. She had been under the impression that only Hannibal, Alana, and the others at the FBI knew who she was or where she was from. 

“I work very closely with someone in on your investigation. They’re concerned about you.”

“Who? Alana Bloom?”

Freddie shook her head, “She always seemed a little too straight laced for me. Afraid to get her hands too dirty, ya’ know?”

“I guess,” Ophelia shook her head, “But if you’re a journalist, does that mean-”

“I’m not going to write about you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Freddie sighed, “Normally I would, but this is a favor to a friend. What I _am_ going to do is help you.”

“Help me how?”

“How’s life in the Lecter household?”

“Fine,” Ophelia shrugged.

“Food’s good?”

She nodded.

“Any weird people hanging around?”

“Nope. Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Freddie sighed, “Doctor Lecter has some interesting friends, though. I would try to stay away from their crowd if I were you.”

“Is Hannibal in some kind of trouble, Ms. Lounds?” Ophelia stood, and Freddie rose with her. 

“No, no, no,” she dug through her purse for a moment, retrieving a small slip of paper, “This is my card. Whenever you feel like getting out of the house, hanging out, whatever, give me a call. If anything weird happens, you give me a call then, too. ‘Kay?”

“Sure,” Ophelia nodded, slipping the card into her pocket. 

Freddie turned to leave, but stopped, nodding toward the front window of the shop across the street, “Do you know that guy? He’s been watching you bury that bird for a while now.” Freddie shrugged. And with that, she was off, strutting down the sidewalk. 

Ophelia squinted at the window across the street. Through the tinted glass, she could just barely make out a figure. It was tall, blonde, and frowning. Ophelia froze. _He_ was here _. He_ had been watching her this whole time. She scrambled back inside. 

“Ophelia?” Hannibal stood as she barreled through the door, “Are you alright?” The office was empty; he had just finished the last appointment of the day and was filing some papers at his desk. 

“He’s out there!” Ophelia wheezed, clutching the front of her sweater with her dirty hands, “He’s been watching me since I last went out there. Freddie Lounds stopped to talk to me- she said you know her- and she noticed him, too. He’s still out there right now!”

“Calm,” Hannibal stood, holding his hands out to her, “I just received quite a bit of information from Jack Crawford that you will want to see. We need to get home.”

Ophelia nodded. Hannibal rushed to her side, keys in hand. He escorted her out of the building and directly to his car, ever aware of what surrounded them. Once the car started, Hannibal locked the doors. 

“Read these,” Hannibal thrust a manilla envelope full of papers into Ophelia’s lap as he began to drive, “Reports from Jack Crawford’s team.”

Ophelia flipped through the thick stack of papers. Some were emails, some were diagrams, and some were hastily scanned pictures of dark, dank rooms. 

_Doctor Lecter,_ one of the emails read, _We have concluded that Ophelia’s father, Thomas Ford, has been using the resources given to him by the Phoenix Research Center to explore the Neo-Nazi practice of “mind control”. Enclosed you will find images of his laboratory as well as a room that acts as a sort of theatre, which contains a projector, a chair with restraints, and a cabinet full of LED glasses. Presumably, these are the glasses to which Ophelia referred last Wednesday. We also found a trash bin full of discarded syringes which still contained small amounts of the drug cocktail._

Ophelia scrutinized the picture of the “theatre”, as Jack had called it. The restraints on the chair were dotted with blood. Her blood. 

Another message read, _Alana has watched the film a few times. I will rely on her to relay its contents to you, but I can tell you that, combined with the mixture Ophelia was given, it isn’t hard to see how she did it. This seems to be a close model of Auschwitz, and more specifically, German doctor Eduard Wirths. You described a dream to me that Ophelia had on her first night at your home; it is almost exactly the same as Thomas’s film. Frame for frame, it seems like it’s been implanted in her mind. Maybe that was the intent._

“See?” Hannibal said as the car stopped in front of his house, “You aren’t crazy, Ophelia. Just under an influence. I suspected it may have been the case.”

Ophelia nodded, “I remember this place. Thomas... Dad used to have me spend entire holidays here.”

“If this doesn’t prove your innocence, I don’t know what will,” Hannibal unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed from the car, leaving Ophelia to scramble after him, the envelope clutched to her chest and the picture of the film room still tightly in her hands. 

“But I barely remember any of it,” Ophelia shut the front door behind her as Hannibal hung his coat on the rack, “It comes back in spots, but if you asked me to tell you everything all the way through, I couldn’t.”

“That’s quite alright,” Hannibal continued through the sitting room and into the kitchen where he immediately began to pull raw meats from the freezer, “We got all we needed when you went under on Wednesday.”

Ophelia nodded, satisfied, “Good. But my Dad is still out there.”

“You are safe here,” Hannibal set his knife down and looked up at Ophelia, sincerity on his face, “You are safe with _me_.” 

“Yeah,” Ophelia scratched the top of her head and sighed, “Do you need help?”

Hannibal shook his head, “I have dinner handled, I believe. You should read Jack Crawford’s messages, though.”

Ophelia lumbered upstairs, heading immediately for the bathroom. She ran a hot bath and filled it with rose scented bubbles, laying out all of the documents on the tile floor. She let the bubbles cover her entirely as she read every word on every page. As she read, little pieces of memory fell into place. People who had not perviously existed in her memory suddenly existed again. She remembered her roommate, Teresa, and the loud girl down the hall who brought a new boy to her room nearly every night. She remembered her favorite dish at her favorite restaurant. Hours and hours of dance classes slowly trickled back as Ophelia read Agent Crawford’s accounts of the university. He had covered every expanse of her life, and for once she was thankful for his obsessive thoroughness. 

Hannibal knocked at the bathroom door and cleared his throat, “Dinner.”

“Coming, coming,” Ophelia hopped out of the tub, bubbles still covering her bare skin, “Let me just grab a towel.” 

She opened the door to Hannibal, his eyes squinting and his lips pursed, as if he had expected her to open the door in the nude. He relaxed when he saw that she was firmly wrapped in a towel. 

“Get a good night’s sleep,” he commanded, “Alana will be here to pick you up in the morning. It will be a late night, to be sure.”

Ophelia grinned, taking the plate of steaming food from Hannibal’s hands, “Can’t wait. See you in the morning then?”

Hannibal nodded curtly, his eyes darting from the towel, to her face, and back again. Then, he turned and strode off, his feet clunking loudly as he made a point to get away quickly. Ophelia had to look down at herself to be sure she was covered. She shrugged, choosing to ignore Hannibal’s moodiness, and retreated into the bathroom, resolving to eat her meal amongst the bubbles and think of only happy things. 

She thought of the “girls’ day” that Alana had arranged for the next day, leading up to the night at the opera. Well, Hannibal had arranged it, really. Perhaps it was to get Ophelia off of his hands for a day. She couldn’t blame him, though; it was clear Hannibal was unsure of how to deal with a college kid. Alana had seemed surprisingly compliant with the plan; perhaps she needed a friend just as badly as Ophelia did. Sure, Hannibal was... interesting, but he was odd. On the surface, he was calm, cool, and collected. But it was as if there was something deeper underneath the surface. Bubbling, and ready to boil. 

“Just like these bubbles,” Ophelia smiled to herself, blowing on the froth and watching it fly.

Maybe he was sad. For all Ophelia knew, he had always been alone. Perhaps she was the first person to ever give him the time of day, or at least anything more than the basic psychiatrist to patient relationship. He seemed so very alone. 

Ophelia had an idea. She shuffled into her bedroom and to the alarm clock beside her bed. After setting it to five, fighting the urge to change it back, she wriggled under the covers. Staring up at the ceiling, she wracked her brain for any and every recipe she had ever read. The only thing she was confident with was pancakes. Surely she could pull off bacon and eggs as well.

“Does Hannibal even like pancakes?” she hissed to herself. It would have to do, she supposed. It was no filet mignon, but it would fly. 

 


	11. Chapter 11

“Dammit!” Ophelia’s voice woke Hannibal early. He rolled over and glanced at the clock. It was just past six. There was a pop and a clang and more cursing from downstairs.

“You’re awake?” Hannibal muttered, slipping out of bed, his voice gravelly and his usually combed hair scruffy and wild. He flipped on the light, quickly slipping on a shirt and straightening his pajama bottoms. Normally, Hannibal would never allow anyone to see him so disheveled, but his curiosity got the better of him. 

Careful not to make too much noise, Hannibal slipped out of his bedroom and down the stairs. Fast paced music with a pounding beat blared through the speakers of the radio as Ophelia darted from the countertop to the stove, and back to the countertop again. The fingers on her left hand were red and splotchy, as if she had been burned. 

She was already fully awake, dressed in a pair of torn old jeans and a slouching v-neck. Her golden hair was pulled up into a messy knot at the top of her head, a yellow bow holding it in place. 

Hannibal watched from the doorway as Ophelia sunk into a deep plié in front of the stove while she flipped a pancake over in the skillet and prodded the sizzling pan full of bacon next to them. She lifted herself up into third position then, as she leaned over to spoon scrambled eggs onto two identical plates. And ever dancing, she divvied up an enormous stack of pancakes and equally large slices of bacon. 

“Breakfast?” Hannibal fought the grin that was fighting to show itself.

Ophelia jumped, nearly dropping the spatula that she had been using to stack pancakes, “Oh! Good morning! Yeah, I hope you like pancakes, because they’re huge. The eggs and bacon are normal, though.”

“You burned yourself,” he gestured to the fingers on her left hand.

“Bacon grease,” Ophelia slid a plate stacked with food toward him, “Well, it’s not really bacon. I sliced up some of the meat in your fridge and used that. So, technically, it’s bacon. But this tastes better, I think, whatever it is. Elk, maybe? I had that once.”

“You have good taste,” Hannibal poked his fork into the pancakes and took a bite. They were fluffy and tasted a bit like cinnamon. The eggs were cheesy and soft, mixed in with chunks of the same meat that the bacon was made of. 

“And it is indeed elk,” Hannibal continued, taking a sip of the orange juice that Ophelia slid toward him, “Killed him myself. It was an exhilarating hunt that I took during an extended stay in Wyoming.”

Ophelia snorted, “Okay, what can’t you do?” She took a hearty bite of the pancakes, and it was obvious that she was pleased with herself. 

“I admit,” Hannibal allowed himself to smile through a bite of bacon, “I admit, I had tried fishing once. It ended with an overturned boat and an empty stomach for all of us.”

Ophelia laughed heartily into her glass of orange juice, “You’ll have to tell me more about that, for sure.”

Hannibal glanced at his watch, still smiling, “But for now you must go. Alana should be here soon. I’ll clean this all up; don’t worry,” he rose, taking his breakfast with him, “I will be going directly from my evening appointments to the theatre, so Alana has agreed to drive you there. She knows where to go,” he turned away from her, but caught himself before he left, “And thank you for the meal.” 

 

 

The Lyric Opera House was full to bursting for the first run of _Don Carlo_. It was one of Hannibal’s favorite operas; politics, kingship, heresy, adultery, and love combined with incomparable pomp and solemnity made for quite a show. The opera house never failed to put on an excellent show, and this one was sure to be their best. 

Hannibal strode languidly through the golden doors of the opera house and was immediately greeted by numerous men and women who dripped jewels and finery. He was handed a champagne flute by a young, strapping man who bobbed and weaved through the crowd, a silver tray of drinks balanced on his palm. Hannibal took a sip, casting a casual glance around the room. 

“Hannibal!” a small group convened at the bottom of the grand staircase leading from the entrance hall into the opulently decorated lobby. A man stepped out of the group to greet him. His name was Wyatt Harp. 

“Good evening,” Hannibal smiled, joining the group and smoothing the front of his tuxedo, “I must say I’m surprised. Seems to me you all have indulged in less champagne than usual.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” the black haired woman, Eleanor DeCassé, laughed loudly, “We will surely reach our usual quota by the end of the first act.”

“And surpass it by dinner!” Eleanor’s sister, Penelope, who was also part of the small group, flashed Hannibal a cheeky smile. He ignored it. 

“You alone again, Hannibal?” Wyatt asked, taking a swig of his champagne, “Or have you finally lured someone into our folds?”

Hannibal snorted, “I do have someone coming. She’s not-”

“Hannibal Lecter!” Eleanor swatted at his arm, “It’s about time! Do tell. Where is she?”

“She’s not a... a romantic pursuit, Eleanor, so I must stop you there,” Hannibal rolled his eyes, “But she _is_ supposed to be here. I fear she may be lost in such a large, sophisticated crowd.”

“Tell us,” Wyatt glanced back at Eleanor, Penelope, and the rest of the group, who were deep in their own conversation, “What does she look like? I’ll keep a look out.”

“Ophelia is not a conquest, Wyatt,” Hannibal frowned down at him, “She is here to enjoy the performance, not your attempts at romance.”

Wyatt patted Hannibal on the shoulder, “Ophelia, huh? Wasn’t thinking that at all, comrade. Is she joining us for dinner?”

“Yes, she is,” Hannibal’s face smoothed over again, “She actually offered to aid me in preparing our dinner tonight. But I see she may be trapped with you instead of in the kitchen with me.”

“Tell us about her while we wait,” Penelope begged, “We have time.”

Hannibal fought the urge to roll his eyes. Anything new in the group was instantly the most exciting thing in the world. This was why he only took them in doses. 

“Ophelia is a dancer,” Hannibal began, “A quite talented dancer, actually. She enjoys reading the books in my office, which tells you quite a lot.”

Wyatt snorted, the champagne obviously beginning to go to his head, “No one enjoys reading those books, Hannibal.”

“She shares my distaste for the banal,” Hannibal continued, ignoring the jab.

“But what does she _look_ like?” Eleanor traced the edge of her champagne glass with her finger, “If we’re going to find her in this crowd, we’re going to need to know what we’re looking for!” She adjusted the bodice of her dress, hoisting it upward as she spun around, craning her neck. 

“Well,” Hannibal scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, “She’s blonde. Green eyes, tall, slender. Freckles across the bridge of her nose. Sort of unmistakable, really.”

“So,” Wyatt rubbed his chin with his forefingers, “That would be her then?” He gestured to the stairs. 

Hannibal turned to where his thick fingers were pointed and he felt something that he could not recall experiencing in his lifetime. His stomach flipped and his chest pounded as he stared her down.

Ophelia stood at the top of the stairs, her head held aloft and her hands poised at her sides. Her slim, tanned frame was draped in deep blue satin that was slashed almost to her navel, with only modest drapes of material keeping her decent. Her hair fell in loose, luxurious curls down her back. Ophelia’s ever so slightly parted lips were tinted a warm shade of pink, like the color of dragon fruit. Her delicate hands clutched a small silver purse, dotted with diamond-like rhinestones. 

Her eyes locked onto his, and she gave him a rueful smile and a wave. Hannibal felt as if he could not move; he could only watch as she glided down the staircase. It took every ounce of his power to keep his face straight as she approached. 

“Ophelia,” Hannibal nodded curtly, “You look nice.”

“You, too,” Ophelia smiled, her face alight.

“Hannibal Lecter: the king of understatement,” Wyatt pushed past him and took Ophelia’s hand, planting on it a sloppy kiss, “‘Radiant’ would be a more appropriate word, I believe. Wyatt Harp, author extraordinaire, at your service.”

“Enchanté,” Ophelia mock-curtsied, “Ophelia Ford, dance student extraordinaire.”

Hannibal watched as she went through the motions flawlessly, introducing herself to each of his associates. He couldn’t help but swell with pride. Ophelia laughed and smiled and schmoozed, her voice a tinkling bell in the sea of all the usual opera crowd. 

“Well done, Hannibal!” Eleanor raised her eyebrows as she looked Ophelia up and down.

The lights of the lobby flashed, indicating that the show was to start soon. Hannibal held his arm out to Ophelia, a satisfied twinkle on his face. She stared at him for a moment, then placed her hand daintily on his elbow and allowed herself to be led into the theatre. It was a grand room, with red velvet seats gilded in gold. The stage was dark, the curtain just waiting to be raised. Hannibal led Ophelia to the fourth row from the stage. Wyatt, Eleanor, Penelope, and the others led the way, gliding silently to the center of the row; they had prime seats and Ophelia was rather excited. 

Hannibal caught a glimpse of a group of men out of the corner of his eye. They stood, champagne in hand, staring Ophelia down, hungry gazes in their eyes. The men looked her up and down, then muttered to each other, surely making lewd comments. Familiar electricity began to hiss and pop in Hannibal’s chest as he watched them crudely drink her in. 

He protectively put a hand on the small of her back as they slid down the row of seats. She jumped at his touch, but did not protest. Hannibal looked back at the men, making a point of keeping close to Ophelia. They grimaced, realizing they had been seen, and stalked off toward the stairs to the balcony. Hannibal was sure to watch them until they were out of sight.

“You look lovely,” he muttered in her ear as they sat. The others around him seemed to agree as well, for she had grabbed the attention of numerous male members of the audience. A fresh face in the group was sure to cause a stir, but a face such as Ophelia’s was like to cause an uprising. 

In that moment, Hannibal’s perception of Ophelia changed dramatically. Whereas before, she had simply been a damaged collage girl with nothing more than a solid head on her shoulders, she was now blossoming into something much more. All of her actions, from reading Plato to burying the sparrow, suddenly had new, endearing, and beautiful meaning. Hannibal could not believe he had ever thought of anything but being near her. It was an entirely foreign sensation, but it was not unwelcome. All recollection of Bedelia’s accusations were forgotten.

“Thank you,” Ophelia leaned in to whisper, for the lights were beginning to dim and the overture was striking up. Their faces were rather close, and for a moment, all Hannibal could feel was her warm breath. 

And then the curtain rose, and the theatre was transported to an entirely different world. The music built and soared, and Ophelia leaned back in her seat, immediately engrossed in the action onstage. She watched the dancers particularly closely, holding her breath every time they leapt high into the air and grinning broadly every time a particularly difficult trick was executed. Every once in a while, Hannibal would catch her swaying ever so slightly to the music, and when the short intermission came along, she was eager to have it start right back up again. 

“Would you like a drink?” Hannibal placed a hand gently on her bare shoulder, “I could use a second one myself.”

“Sure,” she nodded, smiling, “I’ll walk with you. This is just fantastic! I mean, the music, the dancing, the...everything. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

Hannibal beamed, taking her hand and leading her through the crowd to the lobby where drinks were being served, “I am thrilled that you’re enjoying it. Giuseppe Verdi has always been a favorite of mine. You seem to be quite enthralled with the ballet chorus.”

“Oh, of course!” Ophelia flustered, “The one in the third act was just fantastic.” 

“I agree,” Hannibal took two champagne flutes from the tray by the entrance to the theatre, handing one to Ophelia, “I also think you will be quite pleased with the ending. It is intense, to put it mildly.” They both took small sips of the champagne, and Ophelia pursed her lips at the taste. 

“Your friends seem...” Ophelia searched for the right words as they slipped back through the crowd toward their seats.

“Interesting,” Hannibal laughed, “Eclectic. Eccentric.”

Ophelia laughed as well, and Hannibal’s stomach did a somersault, “Exactly what I was going to say. I like them. But you seem much more normal than them. In a good way, of course!”

Hannibal smiled knowingly, “I will take that as a compliment. Mostly I keep them around because they appreciate my cooking.”

“Who _wouldn’t_?” Ophelia scoffed.  

“It caters to finer tastes,” he let her slide into the aisle before him, “much like the opera.”

“There she is!” Wyatt held his hands out to Ophelia as they approached. By the way he was moving, it was all too clear that he was well on his way to being intoxicated, “How are you liking it, sweetheart? Debauchary and adultery make for a great show, no?”

Ophelia laughed, holding herself at a respectable distance, “What else is there?” Wyatt laughed and patted her roughly on the shoulder as the lights began to dim again. The music struck up again, loud and brash, and Ophelia settled into her seat. She leaned on the arm rest closest to Hannibal, immediately entranced once again. 

The intrigue of the opera continued, with intrigue and drama in every scene. There was a particularly energetic fight scene in which the protagonist dueled fierily with the mustachioed villain. Without realizing, Ophelia had clamped her hand down on Hannibal’s knee in the midst of the action. He could hear her heart pounding in her chest and smell her perfume mingling with the sweet scent of her skin. 

He turned away from the stage to examine her dark profile. Her eyes were locked intently on the action, and her lips hung ever so slightly apart. She watched Don Carlo duel his adversary with rapt attention. Hannibal wondered how she could still be so normal; after everything she had been dragged through, it was a miracle she wasn’t holed up in a mental hospital somewhere. 

Ophelia was one of the first to stand and clap during curtain call. She and Hannibal shot to their feet, their hands moving wildly as the actor who played the lonely Don Carlo came out onto the stage and blew kisses to the audience. Once the lights in the house had come up and the crowd began to file out of the theatre, Ophelia blew a gust of air out from between her lips and ran her fingers through her hair. 

“Fantastic,” she breathed, still moved.

Hannibal held his arm out to her again and led her through the crowd, closely followed by the rest of their small group. 

“As usual,” Hannibal turned to all of them once they had made their way through the crowd, “We will reconvene at my home in half an hour, where I, with the help of Ophelia tonight, will prepare our feast.”

Eleanor rubbed her hands together, grinning, “It has been too long, Hannibal.”

“I agree,” Hannibal smiled, his eyes twinkling, “Half an hour, then.” And with that, he led Ophelia off toward where he had parked his car in the front of the lot. He held the door open for her as she slid inside. She adjusted the plunging neckline of her dress carefully as he walked around to the driver’s side, then proceeded to drum nervously on her clutch purse with her thumbs. For a moment, before he started the car, Hannibal sat with his hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead of him. 

Ophelia looked at him skeptically, “What?”

He shook his head and turned the key in the ignition. Without looking at her or speaking to her, Hannibal sped home, his knuckles tight on the wheel. To Ophelia, it was obvious that he was thinking rather hard about something. While his face was steely and impassive, his hands clenched and unclenched. His eyes burned, as if whatever he was contemplating was making him angry. 

When they arrived back at his home, he nearly leapt from the car and strode around to hold the door open for her. 

“Thanks,” she smiled timidly, holding the neckline of her dress in place and slipping out of the seat and toward the front door. She waited silently as he undid the locks, staring down at her clutch. 

The house was dark when they stepped inside. It smelled of the food that Hannibal had already begun preparing, and the candles that Ophelia had burned in the bathroom while she had dressed for the opera. She had forgotten to leave any lights on; they could barely see a foot in front of their own faces. 

Ophelia turned to start into the sitting room, but instead ran directly into Hannibal’s chest. He stared down at her, his face twisted into an expression Ophelia did not know what to label. 

“I,” Hannibal began, his voice tight, “I would like to do something.”

“Okay...” Ophelia let her hands fall to her sides. 

Hannibal’s hands slowly traced her arms, from the tips of her fingers to her shoulders, and then skimmed the skin of her neck. Ophelia’s breath hitched in her throat as she froze in place. Her eyes fluttered closed as Hannibal’s forefinger traced her lips, then the skin above her collarbones. She could feel her heart pounding madly.

In a moment that felt like an eternity, Hannibal leaned his face down so that it was level with Ophelia’s. He took a deep breath in, his eyes examining her frozen face. And then, in a desperate attempt to still the whirring panic inside her, she clasped her hands behind his neck and kissed him. 

It wasn’t a gentle, tentative kiss. It tasted of desperation, heat, and smoldering need. Hannibal’s lips tasted sweet, sweeter and with more heat than the champagne that was still on his breath. In the kiss, she tasted the emotion of the past weeks, everything she could not remember, and more. 

For a second, she pulled away, the reality of the attack-like kiss hanging over her head. Hannibal’s eyes were wide, his lips hanging open, and his hands frozen on her bare back. They didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Just tried desperately to truly see one another. 

And then it didn’t matter. He wrapped his arms around her more tightly, pressing her back against the wall, and she knotted her hands in his hair. Hannibal’s hands ran up her back and over the skin of her neck and down to her collarbones. She shuddered as he let himself pull her into a deeper kiss, full of everything that he had always been told he would never be able to feel. 

They were shocked apart when the doorbell rang. 

“Hannibal, open up!” Wyatt called, his voice slightly slurred, “We’re starving out here.” He leapt away from Ophelia, his face flushed. 

Ophelia flipped on the lights in the entryway as Hannibal hurried toward the kitchen, turning lights on as he went. Before she could even reach for the door, the kitchen had come alive with sounds. 

“Come in!” Ophelia opened the door after readjusting her dress and patting her hair into submission. The small entourage bustled in, pushing past her and hurrying toward where wine was surely waiting for them. 

She followed, watching Hannibal work and waiting for instruction. He moved like a one-man machine: well oiled and fast. Most of the food he had prepared earlier that day, so the meal did not require much preparation. He laughed and chatted with his friends, his hair still somewhat askew. 

“I’ll set the table,” Ophelia leaned across the counter to where plates and silverware were stacked. Hannibal glanced down at her as she whisked the small stack away, and she could feel her face flush with red heat. 

The dinner rolled on past midnight, with the group lounging around the table eating, drinking, and laughing. Hannibal had served them all thin, tender slices of roast tenderloin with salads made of greens and toasted root chips. A cornucopia of colorful vegetables and flowers made up the edible centerpiece: lotus flowers, beets, yam, sugar snaps, and pea sprouts, only to name a few. At the other end of the table was a nautical themed plate full of toasted slices of fish with nautilus peppers, olives and anchovy rolls. It was quite a thing to behold. 

Each time Ophelia looked at Hannibal, who sat at the head of the table, her stomach fluttered and her cheeks flushed. The others simply assumed it was the copious amounts of wine that she had been sipping. Soon after two, they began to stumble out, leaving Hannibal and Ophelia to clean up by themselves. They stood in silence scrubbing dishes, two misfits in evening wear. Neither of them dared break the quietude. 

Outside, in the still, starless night, a barn owl alighted on a branch. It focused on a tree across the street, in which a sparrow nestled, preparing for a restful night outside the dark windows of the coffee shop. The owl ruffled its feathers and settled in as well, but not to sleep. The owl was beginning its hunt.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Bedelia stood by the wide window, looking out at the rain, which had just begun to dribbled down from the black clouds that hung over Baltimore. She rubbed her hands over her eyes, momentarily letting her professional composure falter. Hannibal was heading down a dark path, dragging Ophelia along with him. Everything he thought he felt, and everything that he insisted he was still feeling were dangerous and false. 

“Hannibal,” Bedelia turned away from the window, “I still stand by my assertion that you are unable to comprehend the kind of emotional attachment that you say you are feeling. I commend the imagination, and the effort, but it will not work.”

“I must admit I am confused by it all,” Hannibal sighed crossing and uncrossing his legs in his chair, “I feel as if a levee has broken somewhere in my mind. And I am not sure if I want to repair it.”

“That ‘levee’,” Bedelia sighed, “Is your mind trying to process the things you are forcing onto it. And that Ophelia is forcing into it.”

“I instigated the romantic gesture, Bedelia. Ophelia has done nothing but make me doubt myself.”

With a sigh, Bedelia sank onto the couch across from Hannibal. She thought about everything that had transpired between him and the Ophelia girl since their last meeting. Hannibal was obviously forcing himself to manufacture feelings; he surely did not have the ability to feel such strong, affectionate things for Ophelia. He had merely convinced himself that he could. 

“What do you plan to do about it?” she asked. 

Hannibal sighed, running his tongue across his teeth, “That is what I was hoping you could shed some light on.”

Bedelia shrugged, “I know this may be hard for you to believe, but I do not have all the answers. What I can tell you is that you would be wise to backpedal. Stop pursuing a feeling that just cannot exist. Stop pretending it can. And stop turning this into another Will-type scenario.”

He stayed silent for a moment, torn between believing her and refuting her claim. Every detail of the relationship he had revealed to Bedelia, even the events of the previous night at the opera and afterward. It was the first time he had even tried to feel something so real.

“I don’t know what to say,” Hannibal kept his eyes cast to the ground in front of Bedelia’s feet, “This is something I have never experienced before, and I don’t know how to proceed.”

“Don’t,” she shook her head, her hair bouncing over her shoulders and her earrings jingling, “Don’t proceed. Her case will be solved by Jack Crawford and his group soon enough and she will be off creating a new life for herself. If this is something you are truly feeling, you won’t feel it for much longer.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Hannibal’s face darkened considerably. He knew there was no use hiding it from Bedelia. 

“And don’t do anything rash. Anything that you will regret,” she pursed her lips knowingly. 

“Of course.”

“Where is she now?”

“At home,” Hannibal shifted in his seat, “I left before she had even stirred.”

“And what do you plan to do when the two of you are alone together again?”

He shrugged, “Business as usual, I presume. I had not given much thought to what was to come, only to what had already passed.”

“Well, there you go,” Bedelia flustered her hand in front of her face, “You haven’t thought. And when you do, I am sure you will begin to see reason.”

“My intentions are-”

“Your intentions are entirely clear, Hannibal,” she was suddenly stern, “The evidence goes to show that this cannot end well. Stay professional.” 

She watched as anger bubbled beneath his glassy exterior. It was a storm that had been brewing for as long as she had known him, and had been locked up tight ever since. But as she watched him, as the rain came down in a quiet rush, a crack in the lock was formed. 

 

 

Ophelia had stayed in her pajamas all day. When she had awoken, Hannibal had already left for the day; he was wise in expecting her hangover. She had shuffled downstairs in an old t-shirt and purple wooly socks to find a plate of breakfast waiting for her in the fridge and a bottle of ibuprofen sitting conveniently on the counter. 

She sat alone in the kitchen, twirling her ponytail around her finger, her headache subsiding rather quickly. The grand music of the opera floated through her mind; she swayed in her chair to the songs of the ballerinas that had danced through her muddled dreams all night. 

Her toes curling at the thought, Ophelia recalled the kiss. Stomach fluttering and head reeling, her fingers found their way to her lips, where Hannibal’s had been just the night before. She had thought about kissing Hannibal before in daydreams and outlandish fantasies, but in none of her dreams had he been so broodingly aggressive. She shivered, grinning to herself. 

After cleaning up in the kitchen, Ophelia felt full of energy. Perhaps she could see Alana again; their “girls’ day” had been a smashing success. Ophelia had never pegged Alana Bloom as the type to be fun in any way, shape, or form, but she had really pulled through. Ophelia resolved to give her a call later on. 

But as she reached the top of the stairs, something else caught her attention. Usually, the door leading to her room was the only one left open on the upper level, but today Hannibal’s doors had been left ajar, and Ophelia couldn’t help but feel overwhelmingly curious about them. 

She slipped through the small opening and into the dark, cave-like room. Immediately, she was hit with a blast of cold air and the smell of paper and leather. Ophelia flipped on the light by the door, her eyes widening and her mouth falling open. 

Hannibal’s bedroom was enormous; it was almost a smaller scaled model of his office, only without the upper balcony. His black, satin sheeted bed was settled against the far wall, leaving a large desk, glass display case, and a bookshelf to occupy the rest of the room. Dark landscapes hung in golden frames on the walls and a wrought iron chandelier dangled from the center of the ceiling. 

Ophelia peered into the glass display case, cringing when she processed its contents. A tiny bird’s skeleton, completely assembled, was propped in the case. It appeared extremely fragile; perhaps it was a canary or a sparrow. 

Next to the case was Hannibal’s enormous mahogany desk. Its surface was completely covered with stacks upon stacks of paper, on which detailed drawings were penned. Ophelia slid into the chair at the desk and leaned over the drawings. 

The drawings themselves ranged from scarily realistic to surreal and abstract. Most of them were of people, random people, that Ophelia had never seen before. She figured they were past patients, or more of Hannibal’s opera friends that she had not yet met. A few of them, toward the bottom of the largest stack, was an anatomical diagram of the very same people who had been depicted in earlier images. Some of them were so eerily realistic that they made Ophelia’s stomach churn. 

And then, at the very bottom of the pile, was a drawing of Ophelia. She was depicted in the dress she had worn to the opera, laying back on the chaise lounge in the sitting room. At first, she was flattered; she had always admired artists and their way with depicting human likenesses. She was flattered that Hannibal thought highly enough of her to draw her in such an intricate, detailed way. 

But on the other side of the drawing was something much more gruesome. In the corner was a diagram like all the others, but the majority of the paper was taken up with a depiction of Ophelia, very obviously dead, on the chaise lounge in her opera dress. Her head was pulled back, her neck exposed and her neck slashed. Blood stained the skin of her chest and the front of her dress, and her hands were tied in a position of prayer. Ophelia’s mouth hung open in shock as she took in the utterly disturbing image. 

Below the image, in the bottom corner of the paper, was a small, scrawled note. Ophelia had to squint to read it: “Every time I think of pushing you down the stairs, I lick my lips. But don’t misunderstand. It’s the only way I know how to show you that I really care.” She stared at the words, her face contorted into a grimace. 

There was a bang downstairs and Ophelia dropped the paper, leaping to her feet. She pulled the hem of her oversized pajama shirt down as she hurried from the room, flipping off the light and slipping through the doors to the hall. 

“Hannibal?” she called, starting down the stairs, her hand trailing along the stone wall.

And then, in a flash of frenzied movement, a pair of hands flew from nowhere, latched onto Ophelia’s face, and smashed her head into the wall. She was unconscious before she hit the floor. 

 

 

 

Hannibal returned home soon after he left Bedelia’s office. He had driven around the block a few times, just to have the opportunity to be alone with his thoughts. Though he knew not what he would do about his dilemma with Ophelia, he knew that he wanted to see her, no matter what the circumstance. 

“Ophelia!” he called as he stepped through the front door, tossing his keys on the table and shrugging off his coat, “I do believe you owe me a day of film.”

There was no response. He waited a moment, half expecting to be greeted by a hug, a kiss, or at least a handshake. But after what felt like an infinite silence, there was still nothing. 

Then, there was a _slap_ and a muffled groan. Hannibal rushed into the sitting room, stopping short when he saw the scene that had been laid out for him.

Thomas Ford stood in the center of the room. He held Hannibal’s largest knife in his grasp, pointing it at Ophelia’s back. She was strapped to a chair from the dining room, duct tape over her mouth and the side of her head covered in crusted blood. Her eyes wheeled wildly and her chest heaved with muffled sobs. 

“It’s really you,” Thomas stepped forward, the knife still pointed at Ophelia, “It’s really the infamous Hannibal Lecter, standing right here in front of me.”

“Hello Thomas,” Hannibal remained calm, “I’ve heard so much about you.”

He laughed and snorted, “Ditto, Lecter, ditto. Ya’ know, you’re a hard man to follow. It takes a monster to catch a monster, ya’ know. I finally got a good trace on both of you last night at the opera and here we are now. Didn’t my daughter just look stunning?”

Ophelia whimpered, and Thomas stuck the knife closer to her back. 

Hannibal took a subtle step toward them, “Now, there’s no need to be rash, Thomas. Ophelia tells me you are an intelligent man. Why don’t we talk like we are both civilized. Over tea, perhaps?”

“No, no, no!” Thomas laughed, wiggling the knife, “I know how you work, good sir. I’ve heard things. I know people. I’d be dead in minutes if I let my guard down now.”

“Alright then,” Hannibal inched forward again, “Then we will just talk here. What would you like to talk about, Thomas?”

“Okay, first of all,” Thomas sighed, “stop saying my name over and over. I know that’s some psychobabble trick you mind people use to get chummy with your patients. But anyway, Ophelia is what I would like to talk about.”

She whimpered, shutting her eyes tight as he sidestepped in front of her chair. 

“Open your eyes,” Thomas commanded, pressing the tip of the knife into her cheek. 

Ophelia shook her head, a whimpering sob shaking her chest. 

“Open your damn eyes or I’ll cut off your eyelids and staple them to your forehead!” he shrieked, his face a breath away from hers. Ophelia sobbed through the duct tape gag, her eyes shooting open. 

“Okay,” Thomas stood, turning again toward Hannibal, “So, the esteemed, respected, _gift_ Hannibal Lecter. You were called a _gift_ by a newspaper in Utica. Helped some bipolar kid solve her issues. I don’t remember all the details right at this minute. But then another journal in Seattle called _psychopaths_ a gift. Psychopaths! A lot of people agreed with that, surprisingly. You see the connection there, obviously. But what kind of gift destroys everything it touches?”

“Perhaps the gift is the balance that is struck when these psychopaths are in play. It is said that balance must be made between the innocents and the non-innocents for society to succeed.”

“Is that what we’re doing here?” Thomas let his wrist fall slack, but the knife was still grasped firmly in his fingers, “Striking a balance?”

“You,” Hannibal’s voice was touched with poison, “are torturing your child for selfish gain. That is no balance.”

“But, see, I’m using her for the monster she is, to get to another monster. It’s genius, really. She’s a monster, right? She’s a monster!”

“No. I know what she is,” Hannibal took another step toward Thomas, still collected, “She is not a monster. She is a victim.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, “Oh _come on_ Doctor. Your reputation in mind, one would think you could spot a monster when you were confronted with one. This bitch is the biggest monstrosity I have ever seen. Which is exactly why I knew she would fit in perfectly with you. By purifying her, I would purify you. Everything is purified by suffering.”

“How are you purifying Ophelia?”

“Through my experiments! They helped her achieve clarity. By killing her sorority brats and then finding you, she achieved a higher purpose. _My_ purpose. I’ve been watching you for years, Doctor Lecter. I know about you, sir. Sir Ripper. I know.”

Hannibal took a step closer, “I don’t think you do.”

Thomas jerked the knife down toward Ophelia’s torso, “Not too close, Lecter. Wouldn’t want you doing anything rash, now would we?” 

“You wouldn’t do anything more to her, Thomas. You don’t want to. You’ve achieved your purpose with her by getting you here. Ophelia is out of the equation. You have only me to deal with now.”

Thomas thought for a moment, then shrugged, “Ya’ know, you’re right. I don’t need her.” And in a blink, he turned and plunged the knife into Ophelia’s stomach. She let out a strangled moan as blood splattered against the inside of the duct tape on her mouth and dribbled through the edges. Dark redness bloomed around the knife and through the fabric of her shirt.

Hannibal reacted immediately, lunging forward and latching his arms around Thomas’s chest and pinning his arms to his sides. He threw the lean blonde man to the ground and pulled the knife from Ophelia’s stomach, pointing it down at Thomas, who was struggling to his feet. Without thinking, Thomas lunged at Hannibal, his arms flailing wildly. The knife in Hannibal’s hand glanced off of Thomas’s side and was wrenched from Hannibal’s hand. They crashed to the floor at Ophelia’s feet, the back of Hannibal’s head slamming into the ground. With a grunt, he threw Thomas off of him and lunged for the knife again. Before Thomas had a chance to react, Hannibal took the bloody knife in his hands and threw himself forward. The knife, holding all of Hannibal’s weight, pierced Thomas’s heart directly, killing him almost instantly. 

Ophelia’s head began to loll forward, her consciousness fading and blood streaming from her stomach. Hannibal crawled to her and ripped the duct tape from her mouth. She took a deep, ragged breath, flecks of blood splattering from her lips onto Hannibal’s face. 

“I will not fail you,” Hannibal muttered as he hastily untied her, “I will protect you, Ophelia, I will not fail you.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at Thomas’s lifeless body, rage boiling inside of him. 

Ophelia fell limp, her body suddenly lifeless. Her heartbeats were weak and small, and her eyes rolled back as Hannibal pulled her into his arms. The warmth of her blood soaked the front of his shirt as he leapt over Thomas toward the door. He had to save her. She was not a monster, as Thomas had said. She was a victim. Hannibal was the reason he had been there. He was the monster. And he protect her like one.

Veni Vidi Vici. 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Ophelia had her fair share of near death experiences; it wasn’t something she would ever really get used to. But for her it seemed inevitable, like the reaper was around every corner, enjoying watching her become a disaster. She could try and escape, time and time again, but still the reaper pulled her to brink of life and death.

Thankfully, she had always been pulled away. 

Ophelia’s eyes opened slowly, adjusting painfully to the blinding fluorescents above her. 

_Beep beep beep beep beep._

Monitors flashed and whirred by her bedside. Wires and tubes strung like webs from her arms, attaching to the beeps, flashes, and whirrs. Ophelia’s hand fluttered over the stitches that pulled at the side of her head, flinching. An oxygen tube rested beneath her nose; she reached for it, disoriented and confused. 

“Hey, hey, stop that,” a hand shot into her line of vision, swatting her hand away from the tube, “You’re awake!” Freddie Lounds’s face appeared, surrounded by the glow of the fluorescent lights. 

“What’s happening?” Ophelia shied away from her fast movements, trying to turn her head to look past Freddie, but failing. 

“You’re in the hospital,” Freddie put her hands on her hips, “obviously.”

“Where’s Hannibal?” her voice cracked as she spoke his name. The drawings flooded back into her memory, making her shudder and the heart rate monitor spike. 

Freddie shrugged, “He was here a minute ago. Probably went home to eat, or get your things, or something.” 

“What about-”

“Thomas? Your dear daddy? His body is under Jack Crawford’s nose. Don’t you remember?”

Ophelia thought hard. The time between discovering the drawings and being in the hospital was fuzzy. She only remembered nearly dying. 

“Oh yeah,” Freddie grimaced, as if reading her mind, “Massive head wound. Memory loss and all that.”

“I need to talk to Hannibal,” Ophelia began to sit up and the monitors around her went berserk, “Right now. Please.” A sharp pain shot from her stomach through all her extremities and she fell back onto the bed, her hands fumbling protectively at her hospital gown. Fear mingled with pain at the thought of Hannibal being there with her. 

“You really don’t,” Freddie lowered her voice, throwing a furtive glance over her shoulder, “But my friend will be here soon, and you should talk to him instead. You remember my friend, right? I told you about him when we first met. You were burying a bird.”

“Yeah, I remember. Who is it?” 

Before Freddie had a chance to answer, a small caravan of nurses appeared in the doorway and ushered her out of the room. With a flash of red hair, she disappeared around the corner. Ignoring Ophelia’s protests, the nurses began to buzz about her, running diagnostics and changing bandages. Once Ophelia realized that the nurses were a hassle to be endured, she just lay back, closed her eyes, and let it happen. 

“A minute alone, please?” Hannibal’s voice from the doorway interrupted the business of the nurses. They all turned in unison to glare at him, as if he had just called them particularly nasty names. But once they realized who he was, they quickly vacated the room.

Hannibal stood in the doorway for an eternity of a moment. They stared at each other in silence; Ophelia could not tear her eyes away from his face. As usual, it was a mask of glassy impassiveness, but behind his eyes was a plethora of emotion. It was clear that he was having trouble holding onto his steely resolve. Ophelia felt sad for him, because this was all her fault. All of his trouble was because of her. Because of her father. 

“Hi,” she muttered, her voice no bigger than a whisper.

“Hello,” Hannibal remained in the doorway. 

“Fancy meeting you here.” The air between them was tense. 

“How do you feel?”

Ophelia shrugged, ignoring the tugging pain in her abdomen, “I have a bit of a stomach ache, but other than that it’s a good day.”

“Don’t joke,” Hannibal strode forward, his movements mechanical, “What happened, Ophelia? How did he get to you?” Pulling up a chair, he sat beside her bed, his hands clasped over his mouth. 

She chose her words carefully, “I was upstairs. Just... hanging out. I heard something downstairs and thought it was you. So I went downstairs and... bang.”

“Bang,” Hannibal echoed, “Your father was an awful man, with no reflection on you. I must tell you that now. You are innocent.”

Ophelia snorted, “That man hasn’t been my _father_ for years. He stared those experiments when I was little. That’s the last of his real experiment with fatherhood.”

“It’s a good thing he’s gone then.”

“So it’s for real? He’s dead? I didn’t just... dream that? You... you did it?”

Hannibal nodded, “If I hadn’t, we both would be dead.”

“I know,” Ophelia cleared her throat, “Thanks.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, simply studying each other’s faces. Neither of them knew what to say next, which was something quite new for them both. So much hung in the air over their heads. Obviously, an dead end had been hit. 

“Do you have appointments today?” Ophelia broke the silence. 

Hannibal nodded, “A few. But I could stay here if need be.”

“No, no, no, go ahead,” Ophelia brandished a tube-covered hand in the air between them, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Alright,” Hannibal allowed himself a small smile, “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Cooperate with the doctors and the nurses and you should be allowed to return home with me for rehabilitation in no time.”

“Ok,” Ophelia bit her lip, a confrontation concerning the drawings on the tip of her tongue. 

“See you for dinner then.” Hannibal stood and hovered beside her for a moment. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and ducked down quickly, planting a kiss on her forehead, before hurrying out of the room. Relief flooded Ophelia’s body; he didn’t know that she had been in his room. She could only imagine his reaction if he were to find out that she had been snooping. 

For quite a while, Ophelia simply lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. She could do nothing more, really, for she was attached to so many wires and her abdomen was nearly preventing her from breathing. Nurses came in and out ever half hour or so, and Alana Bloom came to visit with a vase of Pansies in hand. A nod to Shakespeare’s Ophelia and her reference to Pansies as a flower of some merit, perhaps. 

Hannibal returned as well, and with him came a veritable buffet of good foods that she would surely not find anywhere in the hospital. While she ate, he disappeared again, this time to discuss her discharge with a doctor. 

Ophelia sat in silence, sipping the soup that Hannibal had prepared for her. It was chock full of vegetables and herbs, something that the nurses could not argue with. 

Just before she had finished her meal of soup and roast chicken, there was a knock at the door to her room. Before waiting for Ophelia to answer, the door opened and a man slipped through, shutting the door and locking it behind him. Ophelia gripped her fork tightly in her hands as the man stood in the doorway, his face only partially illuminated. 

He was an unassuming man, quite attractive, but the kind that could easily blend into any setting. Dressed in a large grey sweater and faded jeans, the man peered at Ophelia through rectangular glasses and through a curtain of unruly dark hair. 

“Hello?” Ophelia’s finger hovered over the nurse call button.

“Hi,” the man stepped forward, holding his hands out in a sign of surrender, “I’m not here to hurt you, so you can stop holding your fork like a battle axe.”

Ophelia said nothing, but loosened her grip on the silverware. 

“My name is Will Graham. I’m here to help-”

“Oh!” Ophelia brandished her fork in the air, “I’ve heard your name before. Hannibal Lecter and Alana Bloom mentioned you.”

“I’m sure they did,” Will shuffled nervously, still a safe distance from her bed, “They’re why I’m here, actually. Well, Doctor Lecter is the reason. There are things you need to know.”

“Sit,” Ophelia gestured to the chair by her bed, “please.”

“Thanks,” Will shuffled around the end of her bed, his hands held clenched at his sides. 

“Are you okay?” she could see that Will Graham was clearly nervous. 

“I’m fine,” Will adjusted his glasses as he sat, “I just don’t have much time. Hannibal doesn’t know I’m here, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Alright,” Ophelia nodded, her brows pulled together with worry. 

“I would tell you that I’m not here to scare you, but that would be a lie. I’m just going to get right to it,” Will clasped his hands in his lap, “You may think you’re safe with Hannibal Lecter, but you would be wrong. I was a professor at one point in my life, and I enjoyed my job. I had dogs and a nice place. But then I started helping out Jack Crawford and the FBI as a criminal profiler for his team. I... empathize with killers, I guess you could say. I hate that about myself. It’s a disgusting ‘talent’ to be able to see what killers see, to see their design. I started working with Hannibal when I was assigned to my first case. He acted like he was helping, but in reality he was just winding me up.”

“How?”

“I was framed for something that he did. Have you heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“Yeah, I read about it once.”

“He had a copycat.”

Ophelia’s stomach dropped as she connected what Will was saying, “You mean-”

“Until very recently my address was Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. And then Maryland Penitentiary until just yesterday. But thanks to some people who understand the way Doctor Lecter works, I was let go. But _he_ does not know that. Because he is still under the impression that his crimes have fallen on my shoulders. He just doesn’t stop. And the thing is, he looks normal and he acts normal, but nobody can tell what he is.”

She said nothing when Will paused. Back in Arizona, she had read about the mass killings happening in the Baltimore area. Abigail Hobbs, Cassie Boyle, Georgia Madchen, Donald Stucliffe, and Marissa Schurr had all been victims of this unnamed killer. But she had never been able to put a face to the killer, or even a name. The last person she would have suspected was Hannibal, but suddenly it seemed rather feasible. 

“I believe you,” Ophelia began, “But for one reason, and one reason only.” She then proceeded to tell Will about her findings in Hannibal’s room, from the drawings to the sparrow skeleton. Will listened intently, nodding as if details were falling into place in his mind. 

“Then you understand what a serious position you’re in,” Will placed a tentative hand on the edge of her bed, “Freddie Lounds has been keeping an eye on you. She was there at the opera, and at Hannibal’s office more than once. She knows how attached he has grown to you. The last time he grew this attached to people, one of them ended up in a mental hospital and all they found of the other was an ear.”

“He wrote about pushing me down the stairs,” Ophelia added, “On the bottom of the picture. Do you think... do you think he wants to do the same thing to me that he did to you?” She thought back to the kiss. On his lips, she had tasted no murderous intention. Only desperation and the depth of a thousand well-kept secrets. 

“I’m sure this is why he took you in to begin with,” Will nodded, “I’ve been following your case as much as I can.”

“It’s over now,” Ophelia muttered, “Hannibal killed the man who was after me. And after him, apparently. He saved me and brought me here.”

“Then he doesn’t want you gone just yet. He has a use for you. Some divine plan of his own.”

“What should I do? I’m not exactly in any condition to make a speedy getaway,” she gestured to her stomach and to the stitches on her head, “What are _you_ planning on doing?”

“What I’m going to do is help you,” Will stated resolutely, “I have a colleague at Cambridge who’s offered to secure a job for me to teach again. When I heard about you from Alana, I knew that I had to get to you before he had a chance to do something drastic. When I was in your position, at first I felt terrified. But then when I realized I could control my own fate, and not let him rule it, then I felt powerful.”

Ophelia pressed her face into her hands, “You want me to just... run from him?”

“The way I see it, neither of us have a choice. You’ll end up like me, Ophelia. I don’t think you want that to happen.”

She looked into his kind, puppy-dog face. It didn’t seem capable of harm or malicious intent. As much as her better judgement told her otherwise, she trusted him. If Alana Bloom trusted him, after all, he _must_ be a kind soul. 

Ophelia hoisted herself into a sitting position, flinching at the tug in her abdomen, and leaned in closer to Will, “Okay. I believe you, and I agree with you. Something’s going to happen to me if I stay here. Who knows? An ear could be all that’s left of _me_ if I stay. Ya’ know, I knew something was weird. Something was off the minute I stepped into his house. I could tell.”

“We don’t have much more time,” Will looked at the nurses outside the window to her dark room, “Meet me at the coffee shop across the street from Hannibal’s office tomorrow evening at ten. We can continue this discussion then.”

“Tomorrow?”

“They’re discharging you,” Will smiled ruefully, “Doctor Lecter knows how to pull strings.”

“Okay. Tomorrow at ten. I’ll hobble my way there.”

“Good,” Will placed his hand on her arm, “I’m glad you have such an open mind. And I’m glad that you’re not blind to Hannibal Lecter’s finely tailored person suit. He’s a monster, Ophelia, and don’t forget that between now and tomorrow night.” And with that, Will Graham slipped from the room and disappeared down the hall. As if Ophelia hadn’t been visited, she dragged herself back into a lying position and closed her eyes. 

Hannibal came into the room, accompanied by a large group of nurses. He leaned down to her, assuming she was asleep, and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. Her eyes snapped open, and she fought the urge to shy away from his hand. 

“Glad you’re awake,” he smiled, “I’ve just gotten the word that you can come home tomorrow. I’ll be sleeping here tonight, so you can rest. Don’t worry, Ophelia, I’m going to take care of you.”

She nodded wordlessly and closed her eyes again, listening as Hannibal settled himself into the chair that Will had just occupied. After the nurses left, the only sounds in the room were the beeping and whirring of the monitors and the soft rush of Hannibal’s sleeping breath. Ophelia took a deep breath. 

_Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow,_ Ophelia thought, _I’ll be safe tomorrow. Tomorrow._

Ophelia opened her eyes and looked over at Hannibal one last time. He slept with a permanent frown on his face. It was quite different from his usually placid expression. In that moment, the events of the past month culminated on Hannibal’s face and she knew. She would die. She would die at Hannibal’s hand. 

 

 

Outside the window was a large oak tree. In it was a nest that housed a single bird: a sparrow. An owl had alighted on the branch below it, its wide orange eyes watching as the petite brown bird settled in for a night of rest. On the branch above the sparrow, a nightingale began building its own nest, happy to have the sparrow for a neighbor, but wary of the owl that preyed on them both from the lowest depths of the tree. 

 


	14. Chapter 14

Hannibal helped Ophelia stand for the first time the next day. It took her a while to stand; the painkillers had done a doozy on her coordination. He assured her that he would take her off of the pills as soon as they were back at home and give her his own herbal remedy instead. Ophelia was silently wary of what his “remedy” would really be. 

The first few steps yielded a sharp pain in her abdomen that shot up and down her torso. It was dizzying, but she refused to stop taking shuffling steps, her hand firmly grasped on Hannibal’s arm. Her back hunched, and her face set in a grimace, she made her way across the room and back again, only to be forced back into bed by the nurses. They made no attempts to hide their distaste at Hannibal’s choice to remove her from the hospital so early, and Hannibal was just as ornery. Their bickering gave Ophelia a headache, but she stayed quiet, her mind focused on her conversation with Will Graham. 

Around noon, Hannibal and the nurses appeared in her room with a wheelchair. They wheeled it to the side of her bed and immediately started hoisting her into it, without giving her any warning. 

“Jesus Christ!” Ophelia hissed as Hannibal adjusted her legs for her, “I can still move my legs, you know.”

“I apologize,” Hannibal straightened, frowning down at her, “I am just quite anxious to get you out of this place and back to where I can properly take care of you. These doctors don’t know what is best for you.”

“Eh,” Ophelia shrugged, cradling her stomach, “I’m sure they’re... fine at their jobs.” She rolled her shoulders, trying her hardest to evade Hannibal’s gaze. 

“Those painkillers are clearly having a negative effect on you,” Hannibal frowned, squatting in front of her and pulling her face up to his, “Your eyes are glassy. And you seem to be quite grumpy.” He smiled charmingly. 

Ophelia forced a small grin, “I mean, I did get stabbed in the stomach, so....”

“I suppose that is a valid reason to be in a sour mood,” Hannibal stroked her hair and popped back up, “Your discharge papers will be processed shortly. We’ll be home by dinner.” And with that he was off down the hall, to pester the nurses and doctors even more. Ophelia frowned, watching his well-tailored back disappear down the hall. 

“Overprotective,” Ophelia sighed, wheeling herself to the window. She watched as a sparrow sat in its nest, tearing apart a small piece of string. Every once in a while, it looked over the edge of the branch, down at the ground. 

There was a knock at the door, and Ophelia’s heart clenched. She spun the wheelchair around, clumsy and ungainly. 

“Oh, it’s you,” Ophelia sighed, relief washing over her body as Alana Bloom entered the room, a basket of fruit in her arms. Her curly hair was pulled into a clip the shape of a wren. She was a welcome sight, and a welcome change from the droll monotony of the nurses.

“How are you feeling?” Alana set the basket on the table beside the bed and pulled a chair over to where Ophelia sat. 

“I’m okay,” she sighed, “Walking is hard, and the meds are strong, but I’m going home today, so....” Ophelia glanced down at the duffle bag of clothes that Hannibal had dropped off when she had ben sleeping. The thought of him watching her sleep made her insides churn.

“I bet you’re relieved,” Alana smiled sympathetically, “What with your name being cleared and your father... out of the picture. You’re free to leave, start a new life for yourself. The entire department has agreed to help you start over.”

Ophelia’s face darkened, her pleasant mask disappearing, “I think we both know it’s not that easy.”

After a heavy silence, Alana sighed, “That’s true. I guess this means Will finally got in touch with you.”

“Last night,” Ophelia rolled her shoulders, her lips pursed, “He definitely shed some light on things. Confirmed some suspicions.”

“He told me. About everything: the drawings, the... stairs, and the obsessive need to protect. Part of me thinks that this is my fault. I allowed you to be taken in by Hannibal. I pushed you two together; you were on those drugs and didn’t know what you were talking about when you said you wanted to be with him that day. You should have come to stay with me instead. I knew... I knew about Will, and everything that happened to him. He told me everything. I should have known that this would happen with Hannibal. He’s always been just so _strange_.” 

“Alana,” Ophelia leaned forward and took Alana’s hand into hers, wincing when the stitches of her stomach tugged, “I really don’t understand how any of this is your fault. It’s not at all, really. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s my dad’s. You tried to do the right thing. I consider you a friend, Alana, and I still will when I figure out what I’m going to do.”

“I’ll take you to meet with Will,” Alana nodded resolutely, “I’ll... I’ll tell Hannibal that you need time away or something. He can’t argue with me. He _won’t_ argue with me. And we’ll go see Will together.”

“Thank you, Alana,” Ophelia squeezed her hands just as the door to the room swung open again. Hannibal stood there for a moment, his eyes darting between the two of them. 

“Alana Bloom,” he forced a smile, “What a surprise.”

“Hello, Hannibal,” Alana stood, letting Ophelia’s hands fall away from hers, “I just came to check up on Ophelia. Looks like she’s doing well.”

“She is. In fact, she will be allowed to leave with me within the hour.”

“You need a break. Let me take her with me for the night. I can take care of her.”

“Why would she want to do that?” Hannibal was obviously resisting the urge to scowl down at Alana, who was standing her ground. 

“She needs to relax, Hannibal, not to be coddled.”

“I’m not coddling, Alana. Am I, Ophelia?”

Ophelia looked from Alana, to Hannibal, and back again, “Um, I-”

“She just doesn’t want to offend you. Ophelia needs a friend. And girl time. You can’t give her that, obviously.”

“What she needs is to _come home_ ,” Hannibal clenched and unclenched his jaw, his face dissolving into a glower.

“Hannibal,” Ophelia tried her best to look small and innocent, “Please? I’d like to spend the night with Alana. Just this once. I’m fine, my stomach is fine. Tomorrow I’ll come back to you.”

He licked his lips and stuffed his hands roughly into his pockets, “Fine. Alana, I’ll be expecting her back in the morning. Early.”

“Thank you,” Ophelia batted her eyelashes and smiled sweetly, “I promise I’ll be okay.” 

A nurse entered the room, skirting around Hannibal and handing a clipboard, “Sign these, turn them in at the front desk, and you’ll be free to go. Come back the minute your stomach or your head starts to give you any trouble.”

“Yes ma’am,” Ophelia saluted the nurse. The petite woman scowled up at Hannibal and disappeared amongst the sea of scrubs. Ophelia scrawled her looping signature on the dotted lines in silence. 

Alana looked up at the clock on the wall, “We should get going. Ten o’clock, right?”

“Right,” Ophelia wheeled herself to where her duffel bag had been shoved halfway underneath her bed and hoisted it onto her lap, “At the coffee shop across from Hannibal’s office.”

“We have a few hours,” Alana stood grabbing ahold of Ophelia’s wheelchair and pushing toward the exit, “We’ll get you changed and get some real food in you, then we’ll go. Are you tired?”

“No,” Ophelia muttered, “I’m just ready to hear what Will has to say.”

Alana’s home was on the outskirts of town, quite near where Ophelia had first encountered her father. It was a small, cheery little place, quite befitting Alana. It was full of dogs, though, which Ophelia did not expect. Despite Alana’s protests they all bombarded Ophelia with barks, tail wags, and sloppy kisses. Ophelia laughed and smiled so hard that she forgot that the stitches in her stomach had begun to smart. 

With the help of Alana, she changed into a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized sweatshirt. She silently thanked Hannibal for packing with her numerous injuries in mind. 

Alana kept the mood as lighthearted as she could, but she continued to glance at the clock every few minutes, waiting desperately for the time to come when they would travel to see Will across town. She cooked a quick meal for Ophelia; it was nothing as extravagant as Hannibal would have fixed, but she was grateful for the opportunity to eat a normal meal where she could easily name every ingredient on the plate. They sat in the living room, surrounded by dogs, Alana on the couch and Ophelia in her wheelchair, while they ate. Their conversation was forcibly light as well; they chatted about film, music, and boys. Ophelia told Alana all about her life before her father’s influence. She felt thankful for Alana, and how she was allowing her to just babble and spill her guts. Ophelia realized quickly as they chatted how desperately she had needed a true friend and not an obsessive protector. 

By the time half past nine rolled around, Ophelia was quite worn out. Without constant access to pain medication, her entire abdomen was throbbing and her head pounding. She downed a few tablets of ibuprofen, then wheeled herself out to Alana’s car. With great difficulty, she slid into the car, gingerly settling in while Alana folded the wheelchair and put it in the backseat. 

“That chair is a pain,” Ophelia muttered as Alana started the ignition. 

“It’s a necessary evil. You’ll be out of it soon. It’s just that, if you put too much stress on your torso, you’ll end up hurting yourself again,” Alana smiled ruefully, “And that would mean more nurses and more Hannibal.”

Ophelia snorted, “That’s not gonna happen.”

The rest of the ride proceeded in silence, with Ophelia staring blankly out of the window and Alana focused on the dark back roads of Baltimore. Before either of them were truly prepared, they arrived at the meeting spot, right on time. 

“Look, I don’t know what Will has planned,” Alana turned to Ophelia, her face serious, “but I trust him. Completely. He’s one of the only people I know who I would entrust with my life. I know he has the best intentions. When Will heard your story, he knew you were a kindred spirit and you had to be helped. He’s going to help you, no matter what you decide to do.”

“Will you help me?” Ophelia’s voice was small. She could feel the universe shifting, as if something enormous was about to happen. 

“Of course,” Alana stroked Ophelia’s hair, a gesture that was full of piteous affection. 

With Alana pushing her wheelchair, they made their way down the nearly deserted sidewalk to the front window of The Coffee Bean, the little shop across the way from Hannibal’s dark office. Ophelia had come here once or twice on days that were particularly stuffed with appointments. She knew Hannibal’s coffee order by heart. 

Will awaited them on a the bench underneath the glowing “Open” sign. He stood as soon as he saw them approaching. 

“We should go inside,” he said, holding the door of the cafe open, “It would be safer in there.”

Alana complied wordlessly, wheeling Ophelia inside and to the nearest table. The barista, a dough faced girl named Maria, rushed over to help clear a space at the table for Ophelia’s wheelchair. She demanded to know the story behind the chair, but Ophelia insisted it was nothing and refused to comment more on the situation. They each ordered coffees and sat in formal silence until they were sure they were alone. 

“I appreciate that you came,” Will muttered, gripping his steaming mug in both large hands, “I also appreciate that you trust me.”

Ophelia responded with a single nod. 

Will continued, “So I’ve given it some more thought, and I really would encourage you to come to Cambridge with me. You’ll be safe there. We’ll _both_ be safe. Unknown, new, safe. It makes me sick knowing what Hannibal Lecter could do to you. To both of us.” 

For a moment, while the trio sipped their coffee, Ophelia studied Will’s face. He looked so very tired, with dark circles under his kind eyes and his curly hair shooting off in every direction. His mouth hung in a permanent frown, and stubble covered his jaw. Holding his mug, Will’s fingers drummed erratically with anticipation and trepidation. 

“Okay,” Ophelia finally answered, her voice no more than a whisper, “I’m in. I trust you, but mostly I trust Alana. She’s vouched for you, and that’s good enough for me.”

“You are?” Will almost seemed surprised, “That’s- that’s fantastic. You’ll be safe with me. Neither of us are going to be victimized by Hannibal Lecter any longer.”

“So what’s the plan?” Ophelia downed her coffee, suddenly filled with the adrenaline of the impending action, “How are we going to do this?”

“I’ll help you with the logistics,” Alana interjected, “Plane tickets, new identification, all that.” She whipped out her phone and started tapping away at the screen.

“Great, Alana,” Will placed his hand on her wrist and squeezed, “Ophelia, you and I need to get our things in order. I can be packed in a day, but you need to be more careful. If need be, you can simply pack a small bag of essentials and we can get you all new things when we arrive in Cambridge.”

“When do I need to be ready?” Ophelia took a deep, resolute breath. 

“The next direct flight to Cambridge is the day after tomorrow,” Alana looked up from her phone, “Noon, out of LaGuardia.” 

“Can we make that?” Will looked to Ophelia for approval. 

“Yeah,” Ophelia leaned back in her wheelchair, “How far is it from here to New York?”

“About four hours. If we want to make that flight we’ll have to leave town by seven.”

“Fine,” Ophelia nodded, beginning to feel an apprehensive fluttering in her stomach just beneath her stitches, “Hannibal has appointments all day; I’m sure I can slip out.”

“That’s good,” Will finished off his coffee, “Alana can come for you at six-thirty, Tuesday morning. Can you, Alana?”

She nodded, her eyes glued to her phone again, “I’ll have new identification papers for you then, too. And your plane tickets.”

“What are you going to do about Hannibal?” Will sighed, “He’s not stupid; he’ll know something’s going on if you start packing your things.”

Ophelia frowned, rubbing her fingers across her lips as an idea popped into her head, “I think I know what to do.” She knew that she had to make him believe, without a doubt, that she would not leave him, and that they were connected somehow. An effective distraction and false reassurance. 

“Good,” Will daren’t ask what she had in mind. 

“Hey,” Maria called to them from behind the counter, “We’re closing. Sorry. Take your coffee to go, if you want.” 

Ophelia caught a glimpse of the clock, and suddenly her entire body realized what time it was. Her eyes began to droop and her mind began to blur. She yawned, covering her mouth with her hands. 

“Take her home,” Will stood, patting Ophelia clumsily on the shoulder, “I’ll see you in two days, when we’re not Will Graham and Ophelia Ford anymore.” 

With great effort, Ophelia pushed herself up out of her wheelchair and stood upright before Will. She held out her hand to him, and he took it, shaking it firmly. A sign of camaraderie. She and Alana then watched as Will bustled from the cafe and disappeared into the night. 

Alana began to push Ophelia back down into the chair, but she swatted her hand away and declared resolutely, “I’m going to walk.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

Ophelia sat in her room, staring at herself in the mirror. The clock on the bedside table read eleven o’clock. A plane would leave for England in thirteen hours. Hannibal was downstairs doing some work in the sitting room. All was peaceful. All was quiet. Her last night as Ophelia Ford. 

She continued to run a brush through her hair. Though it already fell in silky waves around her face, Ophelia continued on, her stomach clenching and her heart pounding. In a whirl, she threw the brush down onto the armoire across from her and began to dig through the drawers, extracting two small orange bottles of pills that she had smuggled out of the hospital. They were prescription meds, and strong ones at that. One label read “Lortab” and then was proceeded by a long list of multisyllabic words that she would never even attempt to pronounce. And the other “Dianoxyl”. She recognized that one; it was a steroid that her old roommate would take before volleyball games. 

Ophelia downed two of each, followed by a swig of water. Almost immediately they began to work, the Lortab muting all the pain in her abdomen and head. The Dianoxyl felt like a shock, as if her entire body had been plugged into a light socket. Her fingertips tingled and her eyes dilated. 

She gave herself a final once-over in the mirror, crinkling her nose in rueful distaste. While Hannibal had gone down to finish up a bit of work, Ophelia had snuck into his room, against her better judgement. But instead, she had rifled through his drawers in search of a shirt. She had chosen the blood red button down that he had worn only once before; red would be the color to do the trick. After re-folding the shirts that she had disturbed while looking for the red one, she had scurried back to her room, shutting and locking the door behind her. 

Whereas earlier Ophelia had been clothed comfortably in a pair of shorts and a sweater, she now stood before the mirror, scant of such comforts. She had put on her least favorite set of underthings; a lacy black bra and a pair of black underwear that could barely pass for a swatch of fabric. Over that, she had sloppily fastened two of the buttons on Hannibal’s shirt, letting the sleeves fall over her hands and the top fall off one shoulder. 

She hadn’t done this since high school. The whole sex thing had never been all that appealing. Though it was nice when it happened, once years ago, it had been at a graduation party, and both judgements had been impaired. College had not been the pace for Ophelia to sleep around; she had only wanted to work. So now she was a bit rusty and more than a bit nervous. 

Now, she stood, a face fresh with makeup and skin fresh with scented lotion, preparing to use her “femininity” as a weapon. Sure, it wasn’t the most conventional way to handle a situation, but the situation itself was in no way conventional. Ophelia knew that there was no possible scenario in which she would be allowed out of Hannibal’s sight unless he was completely assured that his hold over her was more than secure. She wasn’t stupid; the kiss had not been forgotten. 

Ophelia curled her bare toes against the cold floor and sighed. For a moment, she doubted whether or not this plan would even work. Maybe Hannibal would laugh in her face and send her off to bed. Maybe he would ignore her entirely. Or maybe he would respond more... positively. Ophelia’s stomach turned and fluttered at the thought. She couldn’t deny her attraction to him. He was a powerful man, both in presence and in appearance. And they _had_ grown close, no matter what Hannibal’s intentions really were. Despite all that, though, Ophelia knew that it was a situation that she had to get out of. Quickly. 

As the drugs began to take more of an effect on Ophelia’s mind, her doubts began to melt away, only to be replaced by brazen confidence. She scrunched up her hair at the roots a bit, adjusted her bra, and took a deep breath. Downstairs, she could hear the rustle of papers and the scratching of Hannibal’s pen. 

“Now or never, Ophelia,” she told herself, flinging her hair over her shoulders and marching out into the hallway. The moment she began to descend the stairs, she tried her best to slink. She had seen the way women had done it in movies; they swung their hips, their hands hanging languidly at their sides. Perhaps she could be as convincing as them. 

Hannibal sat facing the doorway, hunched over a file full to bursting with papers. His hair, usually immaculate, fell messily over his face, obscuring his eyes. A glass of wine, half full, sat on the edge of the table. After a moment of deep concentration, Hannibal reached for it and took a meticulous sip. He obviously had not seen her.

Ophelia leaned against the doorway as casually as she could and cleared her throat. She folded her arms and tossed her hair as he looked up, his face freezing. Ophelia could almost see his thought process. At first, he made a valiant attempt to stay emotionless and calculating. But as soon as she cracked the slightest smile, something clicked behind his eyes and his lips began to curl. 

“Why do you need to do all of this _now_?” Ophelia pouted, sashaying toward him and plucking the papers from his hands, tossing them onto the couch beside him, “I think you should take a break.” She slunk around the back of the couch running the tips of her fingers along his shoulders. He shivered. 

“You seem to be in quite a mood tonight,” Hannibal muttered, never taking his eyes off of hers as she came around to the front of the couch again. He reached up and snatched her wrist, holding her still.

For a moment, Ophelia knew not whether he was rejecting her advance, but then he pulled her toward him, his other hand latching onto the hem of her shirt and using it to guide her. She took initiative, pushing him back against the sofa with her other hand and straddling his lap. He did not move as she leaned down and brushed her lips against the hollow of his jaw and downward. But still, he did not move. He simply sat beneath her, his hands resting lightly on her hips. 

“What are you doing, Doctor Lecter?” Ophelia breathed into his ear. Her hands ran up the front of his torso and over his shoulders.

Hannibal smirked, his grip tightening on her hips, “I’m trying to decide whether or not you know what you’re getting yourself into, Miss Ford.”

Ophelia bit her bottom lip, tossing her hair over one shoulder and rocking back on his lap so she could look into his eyes. She nodded, running her hands down Hannibal’s chest and over his shoulders beneath his jacket. With a languid sigh, she rocked forward again, winding her hips in lazy figure-eights and skimming her lips over his jaw. 

Suddenly, with a burst of carnal intensity, Hannibal grabbed her hips with both of his hands and pulled her roughly against him. His hands slid down over her thighs, lingering there for a torturously long moment. He knew that he could play Ophelia’s body like a fiddle.

“I don’t think you do,” he growled, one hand knotting in her hair, holding her head still. His eyes darkened as he leaned forward, his lips pressing lightly against her throat. The hand that rested on her thigh slid upward ever so slowly, until the tips of his fingers found the lace that was hidden beneath the shirt. 

As Hannibal pulled Ophelia into a deep, smoldering kiss, his hands wandered, exploring every inch of her while she was so close, so vulnerable. She wound her hands around his neck, allowing his hands to wander over her rear, then up her back and to her chest. She sighed against his lips as his hands slipped beneath the straps of her bra, making small circles over her collarbone. It felt as if every inch of skin that he touched had been set aflame. 

“Hold tight,” Hannibal commanded, hooking his hands beneath her haunches and standing. 

Ophelia latched her legs around his waist as he stood, carting her upstairs. He kicked open the bedroom doors, kissing her with an intensity that far surpassed their previous encounter. He tossed her roughly onto his bed, slipping off his jacket as she landed amongst the pillows. Ophelia crawled toward him on all fours, his shirt slipping from her shoulders. 

“I do believe this is mine, Miss Ford,” Hannibal’s voice was rough and deep, almost a growl, as he loomed over her, his hands knotting in the front of the shirt. 

“Take it, then,” Ophelia breathed, sitting up on her knees and stretching upward so that her face was nearly level with his. The smell of his cologne mingled with the floral aroma of her lotion. Beads of sweat began to form on their skin. The feeling of unspoken desire was the only tangible energy in the room. Unspoken desire, and an untamable heat.

Hannibal grasped the hem of the shirt and snatched it over her head, ruffling her hair and almost exposing her entirely. He pulled her face up to his, kissing her roughly and leaning her back onto the bed. Ophelia fumbled with the buttons on his shirt and the clasp on his trousers, clumsily pulling them away from his body and tossing them aside. She gripped his shoulders as she felt the clasp of her bra snap. He wrenched it aside, pressing himself down against her, and her breath caught in her throat, a familiar tickle beginning to build in the pit of her stomach.

Hannibal trailed his mouth along her jawline and down her neck, letting his teeth knick her pristine skin every once in a while. He left his mark there; a droplet of her blood appeared just below her jaw. Hannibal inhaled its scent deeply, then wrenched Ophelia’s head back and ran his tongue over the small prick of blood. Ophelia’s hands knotted in Hannibal’s hair, a small moan escaping her parted lips. Hannibal felt a jolt of heat and carnal energy fire through him. He took her in for a moment, entirely vulnerable and submissive beneath him. She quivered with anticipation, her legs itching to wrap around him again, and her hands grasping at his hair. 

And then in one motion, Hannibal pulled Ophelia’s wrists away from him and pinned them above her head. Entirely dominant, he thrust into her. She gasped, back arching, hips bucking, and fingers curling against his hands as he turned animalistic, a growl growing in his chest with each movement. Hannibal sat back, pulling her with him, their bodies still intertwined. He grasped the back of her neck with one hand, and the small of her back with the other as she rolled her hips against his. Hannibal, teeth clenched, held Ophelia’s face level with his. The spot of blood on her neck had appeared again. 

He thrust forward as she continued to roll her hips, and Ophelia threw her head back, a gasp and a shriek of pleasure clawing its way up her throat. Hannibal’s lips curled into a snarl as he aggressively pulled her face back down to his. His hand covered the back of her neck and held it there, their heavy breaths mingling in a steamy heat. 

Taking Hannibal entirely by surprise, Ophelia thrust all of her weight forward, pushing him onto his back. He tried to regain control, but Ophelia snaked her body against his, and he submitted. She took his hands in hers and guided them over her bare body, bringing them to rest on her chest. As she rocked back and forth, holding Hannibal’s hands in place, she felt the bubble in the pit of her stomach begin to waver. Goosebumps began to appear on her skin. The hair at the back of Hannibal’s neck stood on end. 

But the power struggle continued as Hannibal latched a hand around the back of her neck and pulled her face beside his. The other hand clasped firmly on her backside. 

“Don’t test me, Ophelia,” he growled, each syllable accented with a rough thrust. He flipped her back onto the bed, stomach down, and loomed over her. He held her head still with a hand around her neck as he reached down between her legs. She shuddered, her back arching against his chest. 

He held her there for a moment, her back pressed against him, then breathed in her ear, “I’ll take you just how I want you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” His grip between her legs tightened, and she whimpered. 

He took her again, dominant and animalistic, relishing every moan and gasp that came from her. It was clear that they were both reaching their ends. In the last few moments, he turned Ophelia around to face him. Hannibal wanted to see her eyes. 

As they both began to unravel entirely, Hannibal dug the tips of his fingers into Ophelia’s skin, while her fingernails raked down his back, leaving long, stinging red marks in their wake. Electricity ran through their tightly wound bodies, shaking their foundations and turning their minds silent. For a moment, the only sensations they could feel were each other. Hannibal, tasting the sweet spice of Ophelia’s lips, listening to her short, whimpering breaths, and feeling her soft skin quiver beneath his fingers. And Ophelia, seeing nothing but the chocolate of his eyes. 

Hannibal fell back onto the tousled sheets, pulling Ophelia down with him. They lay there in silence for a moment, Ophelia splayed across his strong body, and Hannibal holding her there. 

“Stay,” he commanded, closing his eyes. For a moment, Ophelia feared he had found her out, but then she realized what he really meant. 

Ophelia waited for a long while before she dared to move. Hannibal looked so peaceful when he slept. It was as if everything that he had done, and everything that she had learned about him was a ruse, and that she had seen the real Hannibal that night. She felt a pang of sadness and guilt as she crept back to her room. Unable to sleep, she slipped into a pair of jeans and an old knit sweater and began to make herself look a bit less tousled. After she had pulled her hair into a braid and reapplied a bit of the makeup that had been wiped off, she finished packing her bags. 

At one o’clock, Ophelia was still wide awake. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her reflection, trying to think of anything but Hannibal. It was wholly impossible, though; she was too attached, though she was afraid. That night had surely meant something. It had to be more than just a tryst. Thoughts battled in Ophelia’s head until morning.

The only thing keeping her company until Alana arrived was the hooting of an owl. 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

Hannibal Lecter stood on the outskirts of an enormous crowd, on the edge of a wide room made of marble. He stood quite still; the room was such a massive thing to take in. It was circular, with majestic columns and painted glass windows alternating all around. How the windows managed to fit into a curved wall, he would never comprehend. Into the columns were carved ornate floral designs, as if roses and lilies had grown into the stone and perished there, leaving a footprint behind. The ceiling was an equally ornate dome, lit with thousands of what appeared to be crystal constellations. Elaborately painted scenes surrounded the lit crystals, creating stories within the constellations. 

The inhabitants of the room, though, were in stark contrast to the beauty of the room. From where Hannibal stood, clothed entirely in black, he watched the crowd undulate and buzz like a mass of feeding animals. They were all people, that was certain. But they were all cloaked in unappealing browns and grays. Their faces, where eyes, noses, and mouths should have resided, were entirely blank. They were blank slates of flesh. It was a wonder to Hannibal how they were communicating amongst themselves, as they seemed to be. 

Hannibal wrinkled his nose, skirting the group. He stayed as close to the marble as he could, for fear of being sucked into the faceless rabble. They were like animals. Rude and uncivilized. 

But then he caught a glimpse of white through the mass of dirt brown. His eyes locked onto it as it disappeared and reappeared again behind the faceless. At first he could not discern who this white speck of light was, but then it was all too obvious. 

His Ophelia stood at the opposite end of the room, seemingly just as taken with her surroundings as he was. She was draped in a white cloth that seemed akin to mist, fluttering over her delicate frame. Hannibal’s stone heart shifted at the sight of her. Ophelia’s eyes were trained on the crowd before her, fingers winding absentmindedly at her hair. 

Hannibal opened his mouth to call to her, but suddenly music struck up from somewhere in the room. The brown sea froze at the sound of the first chord, and Ophelia furrowed her brows. Seeing this as an opportunity, Hannibal began to weave through the edge of the crowd toward her. But the music started again, and the faceless browns began to dance. They all danced in pairs, a waltz-like step that they all seemed to know. 

Across the room, Ophelia was pulled into the dance by one of the faceless. She fell into stride immediately, as if she had been born with the knowledge of this dance. Hannibal was wholly confused; he seemed to be the only one not dancing. Nevertheless, he continued to make every attempt to reach Ophelia, who had not seen him. He proved unsuccessful, though, for every step he took toward her seemed to put him further on the outskirts of the dancing sea of faceless men and women. Hannibal could only watch as Ophelia was tossed from partner to partner as the music swelled. She twirled and dipped and spun, her face flushed and her eyes alight. Hannibal was almost tempted to simply watch her dance. He had never gotten the opportunity to witness Ophelia doing what she loved, and it was a sight to behold. She quite resembled a bird, flying from one partner to the next. 

But then it stopped quite abruptly, and the faceless browns froze. Their arms held aloft and their legs lunged, they froze. All except Ophelia, who jumped away from her partner as if she had been shocked. Eyes wide, she turned in circles, looking for an explanation. And, finally, she saw Hannibal. She froze, realizing that she was not alone in the sea of the faceless. 

Relief flooded his body when their eyes met. Her face melted into a smile, and in a flurry of white she started toward him. 

“Ophelia,” Hannibal sighed warmly, ducking beneath a frozen arm, “I was-”

But the music began again, and Ophelia was wrenched away from his line of sight by a faceless man. He, also, was pulled into the dance. Hannibal did not want to be in the clutches of this woman, though. He needed to find his Ophelia, and take her away from the man who had a hold on her. Across the room from him, Ophelia struggled to break free as well. But every time she took a step toward Hannibal, she was pulled away again. 

They danced from person to person, obeying the flow of the room, using it to their advantage. If they obeyed, they both figured, they would reach each other eventually. Hannibal craned his neck as the sea of dancers moved in a circular motion around the room. Every so often, he would catch a glimpse of Ophelia, and he would switch partners, moving a step closer to the center. She would do the same. Their eyes constantly searched for one another. 

Suddenly, as the music slowed abruptly, they found themselves face to face in the center of the group. All around them, the faceless rocked slowly to the abruptly different tune. Black and white were now an island, isolated in the sea of brown. 

But Hannibal did not notice, nor did Ophelia. He swept a stray curl out of her eyes and ran the tips of his fingers down the side of her face. She leaned her head into his hand ever so slightly, and his stone heart shifted again. 

“May I have this dance?” he muttered, bowing theatrically. She giggled, her cheeks flaming red. 

They fell immediately into a simple waltz step, their bodies pressed close together, and their faces inches apart. For a moment, they simply relished each other’s company, their steps small and far from impassioned. But as the music began to swell again, they came alive. Hannibal had never fancied himself much of a dancer, but with Ophelia it was as if it was what he had been born to do. He actually found himself laughing and smiling more genuinely than he had in quite some time as he lifted her into the air in time with a grand crescendo. 

But, suddenly, as they fell back into hold, Ophelia stopped abruptly, along with the music. She stopped as if her back had rammed into something solid, though they remained in the very center of the dance floor. Her face went pale, and her mouth fell open, her eyes wide and full of shock. The sea around them froze. 

Before Hannibal had a chance to ask her what was the matter, great black prongs shot out from her chest and through her stomach. Blood spattered from her mouth as she was impaled. Her mouth hung open, a gasp of surprise frozen on her lips. Hannibal stumbled back as crimson soaked her white torso and her head lolled forward. His hands clutched at his hair in desperation. Shock froze a scream in his throat. 

He spun away from her skewered body, only to find a faceless man standing next to Ophelia, very much alive. Hannibal stopped, his hands still held aloft. 

“Ophelia?” Hannibal spluttered. 

Before she could respond, the faceless man grabbed Ophelia and pulled her away from Hannibal. He lunged forward, but before he could reach her, the man pulled a butcher knife from thin air and slashed Ophelia’s throat. Hannibal let out a wordless bellow as Ophelia fell to the floor and the faceless man stepped away. She coughed and spluttered on the floor below him. 

He stumbled backward again, once again turning to face a third Ophelia and a third faceless figure. This time, Ophelia’s neck was snapped in one fell motion, and Hannibal wheeled away as she fell to the floor, dead. 

All around him, Ophelias were perishing. A fourth was bludgeoned with a blunt figurine. A fifth was set ablaze. A sixth, seventh, and eighth were mutilated beyond recognition. Everywhere he turned, Ophelia died. And it seemed as if there was no escape from them. When he thought he has come full circle, Hannibal was only met with an impaled, lifeless Ophelia, hanging from the antlers like decorations on a rack. 

Hannibal fell to his knees and covered his face with his hands. All he could hear was the sound of Ophelia’s screams. Sometimes they were cut off immediately, but more often than not they were long an agonizing. It was the most horrible, horrendous thing he had ever heard, and he wanted nothing more than silence. He covered his head with his arms and howled wordlessly, willing it all to stop. 

And it did. When he looked up again, the only Ophelia that was left was the one that was held aloft by antlers. Only now, she stared up at him, her eyes aware and her lips hanging slightly open. Her skin was pale and her breathing was pained. But she was alive. 

Hannibal scrambled forward. He knelt so that he could be face to face with his dying Ophelia. His hands fluttered around the prongs that protruded from her torso, but he knew not what to do for her. 

“You made me this way,” Ophelia muttered, her voice no more than a husky whisper. 

“Ophelia,” Hannibal took her face in his hands, “I had not intended for this to be your fate.”

“It’s okay,” Ophelia’s lips curled into a weak smile, her eyes fluttering as she struggled to stay conscious, “I love you anyway.” She coughed and a bit of black blood splattered onto the front of Hannibal’s shirt. And then her head went limp in his hands. The antlers dissolved and she fell into his lap, blood no longer pooling beneath her. Hannibal pulled her into his arms. He cradled her body against his chest. All around him, the faceless sea grew closer, looming over him. Watching. 

 

 

Hannibal’s eyes flew open, his pupils dilating and shrinking wildly. He was drenched in sweat, the sheets nearly thrown from the bed. As his racing heartbeat slowed, he cast a glance around the room. Slowly he remembered where he truly was, and what had truly transpired the night before. He let his face fall into his hands. It had been a dream and nothing more. Ophelia was here, and she was very much alive. 

He patted the empty bed next to him, expecting to find her sleeping there. But the dark room was entirely devoid of her presence. 

“An early riser for once,” Hannibal chuckled, sliding from bed and fumbling around for clothes, ignoring the disastrous state of his bed. Cleanliness was not his primary concern this morning. 

His primary concern was Ophelia. _His_ Ophelia. The bond that he had known they shared had been sealed, and they were bound. Hannibal had never expected to find such kinship, such companionship, but he surely did. The mere thought of Ophelia made his usually icy demeanor soften. 

He emerged from his dark, cave-like room and stretched, his joints popping and an involuntary moan escaping his lips. He sighed and hurried down the stairs, eager to greet his Ophelia. 

But she was not in the sitting room. Nor was she in the kitchen or the dining room. Hannibal frowned, unsettled at the silence that met him in every room. He hastened back upstairs, peeking again into his room, just to make sure he hadn’t overlooked her in the mass of his sheets. He then knocked at the bathroom door, but was met with no cheerful response. 

“Ophelia?” he burst into her bedroom, hoping ever so desperately to find her at the foot of her bed, doing her hair into a braid as she so often did. 

But there was no trace of his Ophelia in that room. The bed was made and the curtains were pulled neatly open. The closet door was open, and the racks were empty. Her bags were absent from their usual pile in the corner of the room. 

Hannibal turned and ran from the room, “Ophelia!” he called, “Ophelia!” He nearly threw himself down the stairs. He called her name over and over, but there was no cheerful response. 

Out onto the sidewalk he ran. His hair askew, and his pajamas twisted around his torso, he spun around. Her name froze on his lips. 

She was gone. 

 


	17. Chapter 17

By the time the plane touched down at Heathrow, Ophelia’s stomach was crippled with pain. The stitches felt as if they were about to burst, and the muscle felt completely obliterated. She sat in the small, scratchy plane seat next to Will nearly hunched over and frozen with the seemingly endless parts of her body that were throbbing. The back of her neck was stiff and littered with small, circular bruises, and her legs felt like limp noodles. Not to mention her head was throbbing from the rough landing. 

She took her new ID card from her wallet and turned it over a few times, memorizing everything she could about her new life as the pilot waited to pull the plane up to the gate. 

“Nora Spencer,” it read, next to a picture of Ophelia and a list of fictional information. Alana had set it up so that Ophelia and Will were a brother and sister pair from Florida, whose lives had changed on a radical whim when they decided to pick up and move. Ophelia pursed her lips. She would have at least picked a better name.

Will was now known in most record books as “Jack Spencer”, a criminal psychiatrist whose endeavors in Florida had become too monotonous. All of his colleagues at Cambridge had been briefed of the situation before their arrival by Alana Bloom, who had virtually orchestrated every aspect of their lives right down to their living quarters. 

“Welcome to Heathrow, and thank you for flying American Airlines,” the pilot’s gravelly voice blared through the speakers, making Ophelia cringe. 

Will stood, reaching up into the compartments above the seats to retrieve their very minimal baggage. They both had only packed a single, small case packed tight with only essentials; Ophelia had left behind all of her Chi Omega shirts and fancy dresses. She missed them already. 

“Nora,” Will cleared his throat, holding his bag out to Ophelia, who was still staring out the window at the dreary sky. She pushed herself out of her seat, grimacing at the sharp pain that shot through her torso. 

“Thanks,” she said through gritted teeth. 

“Are you okay?” Will held his hand out to her, helping her out of the row of seats and into the aisle, “You’ve looked terrible the whole flight.”

She forced a laugh, “Thanks, but yeah I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

“How’s the...” he motioned to her stomach as they started shuffling toward the exit, bags clutched tight, “injury?”

“Fine,” Ophelia waved him away, “Just wish I had brought some painkillers, that’s all.”

“We can go to the doctor-”

“No, it’s fine. Really. I just want to get home.”

She hated snapping at Will. He was, after all, the reason she was escaping an undeniably grim fate. But she hadn’t slept since the hospital, and the weight of the past days’ events had begun to grow enormously overwhelming. 

Will put his hand on Ophelia’s back, guiding her up the ramp from the plane and out into the airport. It was nearly empty, though it was just past midnight. Ophelia was taken by surprise for a moment; she had never been confronted with such a time change before. It was no wonder her internal clock was thrown off. 

“There’s a car parked and waiting for us outside the west terminal,” Will muttered, taking Ophelia by the arm and leading her down the linoleum walkway through the terminals, his bag swinging by his side. 

“Who put it there?” Ophelia looked up at him, surprised that their escape had been so elaborately planned. 

“Alana has a lot of friends,” he beamed, adjusting his glasses. Ophelia had not let his affection for her go unnoticed. She made a mental note to ask him about it later. They would make an adorable couple, she thought. 

Will and Ophelia carried on in silence. They drove through London, surprisingly quiet for that time of night. Once their small, compact car passed the city limits, nearly all activity came to a screeching halt. The countryside was dark, only dotted occasionally with the distant lights of small towns and hamlets. Ophelia spent the majority of the drive staring out of the window, her forehead resting against the glass. In the silence, she could think. 

Alana had assured her that her name was cleared in the states, and the FBI was steering the Chi Omega case away from her entirely and in the direction of her father. Beverly Katz and a small team of forensic scientists had begun to run autopsies and tests on Thomas’s body, a process that Ophelia wished to have no part of. Thanks to Freddie Lounds, she was in no way associated with the murders in the public eye. In fact, most media outlets were painting her as a victim because of her sudden disappearance. 

In short, Ophelia Ford had died while Nora Spencer had been born. She wondered whether she would like this new “self” that had been given to her. Surprisingly, she couldn’t think of many things about being Ophelia Ford that she would miss. She could make this new Nora Spencer character exciting, fun, and free. Nora Spencer could be an artist. She could be an adventurer, or a connoisseur of fine wines. Ophelia Ford had been a nothing. Ophelia Ford stood for nothing. No one would notice that Ophelia Ford had died and Nora Spencer had been born. 

But she was wrong. Across the ocean, Ophelia Ford refused to die.

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

The sound of the man’s voice was grating, pounding against Hannibal’s ears. Whereas usually he sat at attention, taking in everything that his patients said, he sat hunched in his chair, his eyes focused past the man’s head and at the small, faded shirt that was draped over his desk chair. 

Hannibal and his patient were only barely illuminated in the misty, grey light of the rainy August day. The windows that stood tall on the wall beside them were pulled only halfway closed, casting a bar of grey across each of their faces. The rest of the room was dark and devoid of life. 

“And I mean, what am I supposed to do about it, right? It’s not like I can just snap my fingers and fix it for her,” the man, Ronald Beasley, scoffed and wiped his snotty nose on a tissue and tossed it onto the glass table by his chair. Hannibal noted it, but did not feel the desire to act on it. 

“Women, right, Doctor Lecter?” Ronald sighed, sniffing loudly, “They’re all just life-sucking leeches. All of ‘em. They just come into your life, bat their eyelashes, do a little dance and suddenly _poof_! Your wallet’s empty and so is your bed. Because they skimp out! Yeah, who cares. What- what are you looking at?” Ronald turned in his chair, the buttons on his tweed jacket straining against his massive gut. 

“Nothing,” Hannibal sat up, trying to draw his attention back to the matter at hand, “Tell me, Ronald, how long have you and your wife been at such odds?”

But Ronald was locked onto the yellow swatch of fabric, which stood out in stark contrast to the dark, muted colors of the office. He left his thinning bar of grey light and lumbered into the dark recesses of the office. 

“What is this?” he flipped on the lamp on Hannibal’s desk and held the shirt aloft, “Chi Omega? Doctor Lecter, what on Earth have _you_ been doing? You sly bastard. I never pegged you as one to go after college girls, but-”

“I think you should come sit down,” Hannibal stood, clenching his fists in his pockets, “I’m sure you want to get your money’s worth of your time.”

Ronald stuffed the shirt to his face and inhaled, “Flowers. Good catch, Doctor Lecter.” He began to ball up the shirt to toss it aside, but Hannibal rushed to him and snatched it from his clutches. He stared down at the grimy little man for a moment, eyes wide, teeth clenched, and hair falling in his face. 

“Sit _down,”_ Hannibal barked “Mister Beasley.” Ronald seemed stunned for a moment, then returned to his seat with an air of haughtiness about him. Hannibal stayed by his desk for a moment, clutching the shirt in his hands. He lifted it to his nose and inhaled deeply. The intoxicating smell of flowers had been muddled by the harsh smell of drugstore cologne. Hannibal could feel rage clawing at his ribcage. The only bit of her that was left: soiled. 

Hannibal cleared his throat, “Who knows you’re here, Mister Beasley? Your wife?”

“Nah,” he coughed into another napkin that seemed to have magically appeared in his pocket, “I told a bunch of people I was moving to Mexico to get them off my back. Why?”

“No reason,” Hannibal sighed, smoothing the shirt out on the table again. He let his hand linger on the fabric for a moment, then slipped the golden letter opener by his schedule book into his hand. While Ronald continued to plow through tissues with his seemingly never-ending allergies, Hannibal approached him from behind, swiftly and silently. 

And in one swift movement, Hannibal plunged the letter opener into Ronald’s neck, puncturing his carotid artery. Blood spurted from the deep puncture, splattering across Hannibal’s face and down the front of his suit. Ronald spluttered and gasped, his hands flailing wildly in every direction. 

“You soiled all I had left,” Hannibal hissed in Ronald’s ear, embracing the steady spurts of blood that was hitting his face, “You dirty, small, insignificant little man. I pity you.” And with that, Ronald slowly began to go limp, the last bits of his life draining from his body. 

Hannibal straightened his back in defiance; still at his desk, still clutching the shirt, he let the letter opener fall back to his desk as Ronald went on to complain about his family. It would slide for today, as much as he would like his momentary vision to play out. 

He took a deep breath and slowly turned back to his patient, “Unless you are willing to endure another breakdown, Mister Beasley,” Hannibal stuffed the shirt in his jacket pocket as he returned to his seat, “You should speak to your wife in the presence of a professional. A psychiatrist, lawyer, or otherwise.”

“You, maybe?” Ronald suggested, “You’re smart. You seem like the type that could understand women. I’ll bring my wife next time.”

“Fine,” Hannibal fought the urge to roll his eyes, “Next Thursday, then, I will be glad to see your wife as well.” 

Ronald beamed, standing and holding his hand out to Hannibal, “Thanks a bunch, Doc. You’re a huge help.” Hannibal shook his hand reluctantly, then subtly wiped his palm on the side of his pants as the squat man made for the door. 

“Have a good day,” Hannibal faked a smile, following him to the door. 

“You too,” Ronald waved over his shoulder, “And good luck with the sorority girl!” He chortled all the way out of the office building and down the street to where his Honda was parked. Hannibal watched him go, the thought of the letter opener floating before his eyes. 

Hannibal continued the rest of his day with the same restrained anger; he thought of killing two more of his patients and brutally beating another. The only thing getting him through the endless droning of his patients was the yellow swatch of faded fabric in his pocket. 

By the end of the day, the trials of his patients and the worry that he felt for Ophelia’s safety had nearly worn him down entirely, but he still pushed himself to run a last undertaking before the sun had gone down. In silence, Hannibal drove through the busy streets of Baltimore, past the interstate and the run-down car repair shops that skirted the town limits, and out into the growing darkness. He had laid the Chi Omega shirt out on the seat beside him so that if he glanced at it out of the corner of his eye, it almost looked as if she was there in the car with him. 

The Maryland Penitentiary was an enormous concrete building that was surrounded on all sides by barbed wire, and by woods on three. They were the same woods in which Ophelia had seen her father. The guards at the doors knew Hannibal well; he had come to visit Will Graham many a time here. So he was allowed easy passage through the many levels of security in the dreary building, devoid of any hope. 

Hannibal had always felt a sort of connection to Will Graham, though he had pinned his crimes onto him. Will had been the only person who he felt a real similarity to. He, Bedelia, and Ophelia were the only human beings who he felt any real emotion for. And with one of the three inexplicably missing, Hannibal felt he had to cling to what he had left. 

“Can I help you?” the guard at the door to the hall where Will was kept stepped in Hannibal’s path. He had never seen this enormous, heavily tattooed man here before.

“I’m here to see Will Graham,” Hannibal explained, “My name is Hannibal Lecter. Perhaps he has spoken of me? I am his psychiatrist.”

The guard scoffed, “Well unless your name is Alana Bloom and you’re a five-foot-five brunette lady, I think you’re not.”

“What?” Hannibal furrowed his brows. Alana was not presiding over Will; Hannibal had been. 

“Yeah, they switched him over to Miss Bloom a few weeks ago. He bailed out just after she took him in. Suppose she did the trick.”

“He’s not here?” Hannibal’s stomach dropped, “Do you understand what crimes this man is responsible for?”

The guard shrugged, “Not my problem. If the FBI is allowing it, they’re allowing it. Haven’t heard from either of them since.”

Hannibal turned and stormed out of the holding cell, down the hall, and out of the penitentiary, into the growing rain. The only thing keeping him innocent was out in the world, though under the watchful eye of Alana Bloom.

With a huff, he threw himself down into his car. He slammed his hand down on the steering wheel and turned to grab Ophelia’s shirt for a bit of comfort. 

And then, pieces began to fall into place. Alana, Will, Ophelia. He had seen Alana in the hospital with Ophelia. He had also seen a man, through the distant crowd of scrubs and medical paraphernalia, who had looked strangely like Will. Freddie Lounds had also come to visit Ophelia, but had conveniently vacated the premises when Hannibal arrived. All the time Ophelia had spent with Alana... had it also been spent with Will Graham? 

He had woken up that morning, his mind in a haze and a smile plastered on his face for the first time in a long while. Rolling over, his hands had been able to find nothing but empty sheets. He had slid out of bed and dressed slowly, blissfully unaware of the empty shell that the house had become. Walking from room to room, he had called out to Ophelia, and with each moment that she did not respond, his heart sank. Hannibal had run out onto the sidewalk, his hair askew and his pajamas hanging loosely from his body, only to find that Ophelia was gone. He had never felt so abandoned, and that was saying something.

Hannibal jerked his car into gear, spinning away from the curb outside the penitentiary and speeding down the road back into town. Streetlights turned to blurs of white light as he whipped around corners and through stop lights. Before the sun touched the horizon, Hannibal had arrived at the home of Alana Bloom, a cozy but substantial abode in the woods outside the opposite end of town. Her car was in the driveway, and the warm light of a fire burned in the living room window. The sound of barking dogs greeted him as he parked his car. 

“Hannibal?” she opened the front door before he even had a chance to step onto the porch. A flood of dogs accompanied her. He knew them all too well; they had been Will’s dogs. 

“I need to talk to you,” Hannibal gritted his teeth, forgetting his manners entirely and barging past her. 

“Do you want some... tea or coffee, or....” Alana shut the door tentatively behind her, clearly thrown off by his sudden appearance. 

“Will Graham was let out of the penitentiary?” Hannibal spun to face her, his eyes beginning to burn with a familiar intensity, “Why was I not informed of this?”

“Because it wasn’t your decision,” Alana stood her ground, reaching down to scratch one of the dogs behind the ear without ever taking her eyes off of Hannibal, “And it wasn’t entirely mine either.”

“Whose was it then?”

“I don’t need to justify the choices I make regarding my patients, Hannibal. Especially not to you. I tend to know what’s best for them, which is why I was entrusted with Will.”

“So it _was_ your decision?” Hannibal turned away from her and began to stride angrily from room to room, “He’s here then, is he? Are you hiding him out here until he’s ‘better’, Alana? You know what he’s done.”

“Hannibal!” Alana jumped after him, “You have no right to come into my home like this. What do you think you’re doing? What do you think you’re going to _find_?”

He turned to her as he began to climb the stairs and pulled the Ophelia’s shirt from his jacket pocket. It had been stuffed there in haste upon arriving there.

“She’s gone,” Hannibal hissed, “And Will Graham knows something about her disappearance.” 

“Hannibal,” Alana’a voice was small, “Ophelia isn’t gone because of Will. He’s been locked up for months; he doesn’t know that she exists.”

“WHY IS SHE GONE, THEN?” Hannibal roared, balling up the shirt and throwing it onto the hardwood floor, “I wake up yesterday morning and she’s disappeared. All of her things, except that shirt. All gone. No explanation, no goodbye. She would _not_ do that. Not to me.”

Alana took a deep breath, “Let her go. Let her go, Hannibal. There’s nothing to be done.”

“What?” Hannibal took a few steps toward her, fists clenched, “ _Let her go?_ Why should I? She could be hurt. She could have been taken. Forced away against her will.”

“Hannibal,” Alana gingerly placed a hand on his arm.

He slapped it away before she could continue, “You know something about this.” And before she could deny it, Hannibal stormed toward the front door, dogs scattering like ants as he barged through. 

“No, I don’t,” Alana gritted her teeth, “Just let her go, Hannibal. You were no good for her, anyway. And she was no good for you.”

Hannibal froze with his hand on the doorknob, “She was the _only_ good I had.” 

Without another word, he stormed out into the night, leaving Alana dumbfounded in the doorway. She watched his car disappear into the darkness, feeling a sense of dread wash over her. 

“I should have been more careful,” Alana whispered, “We all should have been more careful. Will, Ophelia, wherever you are, stay hidden. Stay safe. He’s coming for you.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

London was much greater of an expanse than Ophelia had imagined, or than she had prepared for. She had awoken that morning feeling ready to explore, or more so, to find a job. Will’s teaching position at Cambridge was excellent, and would more than sustain one person. But they were in the woods together, and together was how they would survive. 

Ophelia wandered along the sidewalk with a massive crowd of tourists, clutching her purse close to her side and smoothing her sweater down over her skirt every time the wind decided to make a mess of it. Cars and tall red busses zoomed by. The sounds of music, chatter, and sizzling food filled the air and floated from shop windows as she passed. 

Will had gone to the university rather early, leaving Ophelia to do what she pleased. She had dressed quickly and headed out. Before catching a train into London, she had grabbed a bite at a small eatery a few blocks away from the station. The waitress who had served her seemed entirely mesmerized by her American accent, and Ophelia entranced by hers. She had introduced herself, as Nora of course, then had been on her way, eager to find something to occupy her time in the city. 

Ophelia only wished she could express her gratitude to Will, and also to Alana and Freddie. She figured the only way to really repay them for stepping out behind Hannibal’s back was by refraining from becoming a hermit. It would be so easy to slip into a rut of lazy lackluster spirit, but Ophelia refused to let herself become that person. Surely there was nothing to be ungrateful for; she was in London, for goodness sakes. She had been given a rare opportunity: the opportunity to start over entirely. Ophelia should surely be happy. Excited, even. She should have to reason to think of home, or of what had been home. Her case closed and her name cleared, Ophelia had no reason to return to the states. She had escaped two morbid fates by leaving with Will. 

Now she wove in and out of the crowd, stopping at stands of wares in the street and pausing every once in a while to take in the sights that she had only read about or seen on television. 

_Now Hiring: Professional Dancers!_

A tall red and black sign caught Ophelia’s attention across the street. It hung over a tall, slender black door and a window that was covered with pink and black drapes of a satiny texture. Ophelia crossed the street toward the intriguing place with a group of French tourists. 

As she approached the small cove-like entrance, Ophelia could immediately hear jazz music, laughter, and the clinking of china. She slipped through the half-open doorway and into an enormous foyer, decorated with feathers and beads, all deep reds and pinks in color. 

A man in a tuxedo with a curled mustache and hair the color of the sun stepped out from behind a curtain, followed by a blast of sweetly scented air. He held himself aloft for a moment, then his stature fell as he looked her over, obviously not pleased at her common appearance. 

“Welcome to The Black Cat,” he plastered on another smile, this one fake and oozing sarcasm, “My name is Vince, and I would _love_ to help you today. Table for one?”

Ophelia shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, “Actually, I saw your sign outside and was wanting to look into applying.”

“An American, eh?” Vince raised his finely plucked eyebrows, “Haven’t had anyone from across the pond come in today.” Ophelia could just feel his eyes boring into her. 

“I just moved here actually,” she cleared her throat, clutching her purse for dear life, “with my brother. He’s a teacher.”

“Well isn’t that just fun,” Vince rolled his eyes and pulled back the beaded curtain that hung beside him, “Go on in. You’ll find the line to the right, Miss....”

“Nora,” she called over her shoulder as she ducked beneath the bead curtain, “Nora Spencer.” She was immediately hit with the smell of overbearing perfume. The space was simply an enormous room, with a long mirrored bar at one end and a stage at the other. The walls were covered with beads, feathers, and draped bits of fabric similar to the foyer, only they reached up to and covered the ceiling, giving the illusion that the entire place was swaddled in the stuff. Between the bar and the stage were a series of tables and chairs, most round and decorated with candles, and others roped off in corners, decorated with flowers and buckets of champagne bottles. Booths lined the walls as well, looping around to the bar and back into a room that Ophelia could not see. Two women sat at the table closest to the stage, clipboards in their hands and frowns on their faces. 

The stage itself was enormous. An entire grid of lights dangled above and in front of it, and it looped halfway around the room, jutting out into two identical catwalks on either side. In the center, under the scrutiny of the spotlight, was a tall, slender redhead who was dancing provocatively on a chair. 

_Oh, so it’s this type of dancing,_ Ophelia frowned to herself. She began to slip nonchalantly from the room, but one of the women in the front turned and gestured for her to get in line. She watched until Ophelia had joined the eclectic line, though reluctantly. 

Soon, Ophelia’s conscience had begun to scream at her, insisting that this was a seedy place not to be trifled with. The types of girls that the two women in the front seemed to take to simply stood up onstage and wound their bodies around languidly. Anyone who attempted a real style of dance was brushed off nearly immediately. The next girl to clomp up onstage immediately began tap dancing at high speeds, earning muffled guffaws and only a few claps from the rest of the line. She left quickly, her head hung and her face flushing.

Ophelia wrung her hands; she had not come in prepared to actually _do_ anything. It was her first day in London, and she had only wanted to scout the place out. But now she had been roped into getting up onstage and improvising by a carrot-topped British man. 

One by one, girls got up onto the stage and fumbled their way thorough their routines; it was clear that not many of them had prepared much of anything or had much experience with dance at all. They all danced to the same song, which put the girls at the back of a line at a bit of an advantage. The girl before Ophelia was excellent. She gave her name: Gigi French. It sounded fake, but Ophelia did not say a word. Her routine involved the chair, but was not nearly as disturbingly raunchy as some of the others. She received a light round of applause, and in response she flipped her long, black hair over her shoulder and strutted away, not waiting for any further feedback. 

“Next!” the woman who had urged her into the line called her up. Ophelia took a deep breath and ascended the stairs, pulling the strap of her purse from over her head and dropping it to the side. 

The two women were starkly different. On the left sat a tall, austere statue of a lady, with flowing platinum hair and thick theatrical makeup. The other was shorter and significantly more voluptuous. A small birth mark was dotted onto her cheek with eyeliner, and her chocolate hair was sprayed up into a bouffant. She looked Ophelia up and down as she took her place on the stage, obviously not pleased with her lack of preparedness. 

“Name?” the blonde looked up from her clipboard.

“Nora Spencer,” Ophelia tried her best to sound perky. 

“An American,” the woman raised her eyebrows, scribbling something down on her clipboard, “So tell us a little something about yourself, Nora.”

“Well,” Ophelia wracked her brain for something interesting to say, “I studied dance in school. I don’t really know what to tell you; my brother and I moved to Cambridge to start over.”

“And what brings you to our humble establishment?”

“Just... if I’m going to do anything with this new opportunity, it’s going to be performing. We moved here to start over, and I intend to do it right.”

“Hmph,” the woman scribbled something else, then gestured to a man who stood just offstage, “Music.” 

The song began after a moment’s lag. It was “Pagan Poetry”, by Bjork, and thankfully her contemporary dance teacher had been wholly obsessed with the oddball singer. Ophelia slipped her shoes off and spun immediately into the dance that she had learned to the song a year before. 

For the first time in a long while, Ophelia let herself get lost in the music. It wasn’t about the tricks and turns, but about expressing the release that she felt in the midst of each movement. In the moment, she forgot Hannibal. She forgot all of her father’s crimes, and that the one man she had ever felt for had killed him to prevent him from killing _her_ instead. The memories of her sorority sisters melted away, as did Will, Alana, and Freddie. All she felt was the music, no matter how strange. 

“Nora,” the blonde woman’s voice cut through her trance. Ophelia stopped short, immediately embarrassed; the music had been off for a few seconds now. She stood in the center of the stage, suddenly feeling rather small while the woman wrote a few things down on the clipboard. 

“Sorry,” Ophelia muttered, feeling a dozen pairs of eyes on her. 

“Don’t apologize, kid,” the blonde woman stood, tearing the paper off her clipboard and handing it to Ophelia, “be back here tomorrow at noon for a callback. Wear better dancing clothes, yeah? We’ll be moving a lot.”

Ophelia was dumbstruck for a moment, then she grinned broadly, “Yeah, yeah I will! Thanks!”

She rushed from the stage, grabbing her purse and disappearing through the bead curtains. The piece of paper was scrawled with notes, all positive, as well as a name and a telephone number. 

“Elle Maddox, owner,” the card read, followed by a small printed black cat, whose tail swirled up and around the top of the paper. 

Ophelia spent the rest of the day feeling rather light. On the first real day of her new life, she had stumbled unwittingly into an excellent opportunity, and she intended to make the best of it. Will would be glad; dancers in clubs such as those made excellent money. Sure, it wasn’t the most upstanding job, but it was still dancing. And perhaps it would help her to stay underground. At least for a while. 

She wandered to the park, where a small group of children was squished onto a bench, feeding a family of birds that were hopping around merrily on the pavement. They were colorful little birds, all shades of yellows, blues, and reds. All save one tiny brown bird, its wing bent unnaturally out to the side. It hopped around the outside of the group, pecking desperately at crumbs that it would not possibly hope to reach. Ophelia sighed, squatting down and taking the bird into her hands. It did not protest as she carried it into the grass and set it down amongst some flowers. She pulled the remnants of a granola bar from the depths of her bang and sprinkled it before the sparrow, who happily plucked up the crumbs, its broken wing fluttering with restrained happiness. 

 


	20. Chapter 20

Time passed unbearably slowly for Hannibal Lecter. Minutes turned to hours, hours dragged into days, and days seemed an eternity. A month felt even longer. The stark lack of life in Hannibal’s home left him feeling drained. His patients and colleagues noticed his slow disintegration more and more every day, noting that even his usually immaculate physical appearance had begun to suffer. 

After hiring a private investigator to track down his lost Ophelia, Hannibal’s life had begun to revolve around their brief and infrequent phone calls. He would stop appointments mid-sentence in order to answer a call, only to be disappointed by the lack of turnout. The investigator worked diligently, though he would not disclose the methods that he used to collect his information. What little information he had. 

Alana had been of little comfort to Hannibal. He had always considered her a colleague. A friend, even. But she had been distant and shut off, as if she wanted no hand in helping Hannibal find Ophelia. This only fueled his suspicions that she had a hand in it, whether Ophelia had left on her own or not. 

Free time was spent sitting alone in the dining room, sipping wine. He sat at the head of the table, the old Chi Omega shirt folded neatly over the back of the chair at the other end. His phone sat nearby at all times. But rarely did it ring. Hannibal carried on like this for a month, and he had no intention of changing this pattern until a significant development was made. 

Hannibal received the call he had been waiting for exactly five weeks after Ophelia’s disappearance. It was late, later than any reasonable person should have been awake. But there Hannibal sat, at the head of the table, sipping his wine. 

“News?” he barked, when the phone whirred to life beside him.

“This time, yes,” the gravelly voice of the investigator came through the line in spotty static, “in the form of hospital security tapes. Footage from the night your girl was brought in. She had a number of visitors that were not listed in the security records. You may need to take a look.”

“How soon can I get the tapes?”

“They’ll be in a box on your porch in the morning,” the voice on the other end began to fade, “get some sleep, Doctor Lecter, and you’ll get your footage.” And without another word, the man hung up, leaving Hannibal in stark silence. He looked at his watch; it was already close to sunrise. 

Hannibal trudged into the sitting room and plopped down on the couch, wine glass still in hand. He lay his head back against the pillows and inhaled deeply. Seeing the tapes would be the first time in over a month that he would have seen Ophelia. She was alive in the tapes. As for her fate in reality, he was not so sure. 

Word of her well-being would have been enough, just for a while. First and foremost, selfish desires aside, Hannibal truly cared for her well-being. While she was in his care, he knew that he had walked a fine line between what he should and should not do with Ophelia. He had thought, at first, that she would just become another business card to add to his box. He was sure enough of it, in fact, that he had drawn her. But instead, she had gotten under his skin. 

Hannibal hated the fact that he had allowed her to wriggle herself underneath his mask. It had always been so meticulously protected; only Will Graham had ever come close to seeing the truth. And part of him had wanted it to happen. The sick thing about killers and psychopaths is their morbid desire to be found out. To be understood. To be embraced. Will Graham had almost reached Hannibal in that way, but failed, cracking under the pressure of the knowledge. But Ophelia had fluttered in, embracing him without a care. Perhaps it was because she did not know the truth. Perhaps if she _had_ known the truth, she would have left sooner. 

Hannibal slammed the wine glass down onto the table, a bit of the mahogany liquid splashing over the edge and onto the table. He leaned forward, his pounding head falling into his hands and resting there. Inhaling deeply, he wracked his brain for any plausible reason why she would want to disappear. This had been something he had considered many a time, and still he could come up with no answer. 

He allowed himself only an hour or so of sleep, leaning against the back of the couch again. There were no dreams to be had, for before he knew it, reality was wrenching him back into the day. 

The tapes were, as the investigator had said, outside Hannibal’s door in an unmarked box. He cast a few wary glances around in the early morning light before scooping up the box and hurrying inside. 

Sure enough, three visitors had been to see Ophelia on the day of her hospitalization, and only one of them was authorized. Freddie Lounds, the insufferable woman, had been to see her first, waking Ophelia from her drug-induced sleep. He watched as she muttered to Ophelia; he cursed the tape for not coming with sound. 

Hannibal watched himself come in and out of the room, followed by nurses, doctors, and Alana Bloom. He had known she was there; Alana had brought Ophelia flowers, something he had kicked himself for not doing. 

The next person to enter the room made Hannibal’s heart drop into his stomach. There in the doorway, dressed in his signature bedraggled garb, stood Will Graham. Hannibal need not wonder at what they spoke of. It was quite obviously scrawled on Ophelia’s face. She knew. She had to. Will had relinquished any and all information onto her, by the looks of it. 

He cursed, slamming his hand down onto the table. Will and Alana had been working together, that much was certain. If time and observation proved correct, Alana had gotten Will released just before bringing him to the hospital to taint Ophelia’s mind. They were both culprits. But how was Freddie Lounds involved in all of this? Perhaps she acted as a messenger, or a watchman, tracking Ophelia’s every move for Alana and Will. If this was true, they must all be aware of Hannibal’s secret. One of them, anyhow. 

If he could get Will’s location out of Alana, Hannibal knew that he would find Ophelia. He leapt into action, this new development acting as caffeine and jolting him into motion. With no scheduled appointments until the next day, Hannibal took confidence in the fact that he would make great strides in finding Ophelia. 

He rushed upstairs, cleaning himself up in a whirlwind of newfound vim and vigor. Before a new hour even had time to begin, Hannibal was making his way through the streets of Baltimore, heading in the direction of Alana Bloom’s home. She would not be there, he knew, for she would have already left for work at this hour. This would be a prime opportunity for Hannibal to search. She must have left a clue behind somewhere. 

Hannibal was greeted genially by the dogs, who were quite familiar with him being around their owners, both past and present. He entered the house using the spare key underneath a pot of begonias, calming the dogs with friendly pats to the head as he went.

The dogs followed Hannibal as he made his way through each room, digging through drawers and filing through cabinets as he went. Overall, he turned up nothing but receipts, grocery lists, and faded business cards. She seemed spotless. 

But, out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal spotted a bit of shredded paper at the base of the trash can. It seemed to have fallen in a hasty attempt to dispose of it, Hannibal figured. He stooped to pick it up, turning it over. There was enough of it to see what it had once been: an American Airlines ticket sleeve, printed on which were four small serial numbers. Hannibal lifted the lid of the trashcan, but was left disappointed by the lack of evidence that he found there. Alana had since attempted to cover her tracks, but what he had been able to find would suffice for now. 

Hannibal returned to his office; it was where he felt he did his best thinking. With the scrap of evidence at his fingertips, he opened up his laptop and began typing away. Soon enough, he had been able to pair the serial number with a flight. It had left five weeks ago that very day.

“London, then?” Hannibal’s mouth curled into a snarl, “I’m on my way.”

 


	21. Chapter 21

“Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was a good little girl. And they called her... _Elle_ ,” Ophelia watched as Elle Maddox strutted up and down the makeshift aisles of the dressing room, “a stunner with impossibly long lashes, theatrical makeup, and a sequined, skin-tight band-aid of a dress,” Elle paused, holding for whistles from the girls as they dressed, “She works the tight stage of the club, toying with the audience. Burlesque!” Elle struck up her best jazz hands, throwing her hair back and fluttering her artificial eyelashes. 

Vince appeared from behind a curtain, throwing a poof of glitter into the air, as if he had been instructed to do so. Then he disappeared again, as the girls laughed through their layers of lipstick. 

Elle continued, “Some say she died of neglect. Abandonment. Old age,” some of the girls booed, “But like I say... no matter how hard you try, you can’t keep a good girl down! And I’ve got a bevy of ‘em.”

Sixteen gorgeous, leggy girls broke into cheers as they fought over mirrors, hairspray, and boxes of stage glitter. Fishnet stockings and oceans upon oceans of boas covered the dressing room above the stage. It was completely decadent, and completely cabaret. 

“Come to think of it,” Vince reappeared, carrying an armful of accessories and corsets shuffled through, divvying out his wares to the girls, “none of them are all that good... which isn’t all that bad.” Ophelia laughed as one of the girls, Lindsay, tried to lasso Vince with a garter. 

“Eight shows a week,” Elle narrated as the girls put the finishing touches on their outfits and scuttled toward the stage in impossibly high heels, “sixteen fabulous girls, and thirty two towers of luscious legs! You go work that stage, you bastions of bodacious elegance!” She spanked Vince on the behind as he passed, heading for the bar to hold down the fort. 

“Here, Nora,” a small, plump blonde pushed a long mirror over to Ophelia, “It’ll help.” The mirror was lined with rows of white powder. The girls seemed to worship the stuff, using it every night before a show, and even more often at the parties that followed. 

Ophelia grinned, “Thanks, Georgie.” She leaned down to the mirror and plugged one nostril. Inhaling deeply, she felt the white powder shoot up into her nose and leave a tingling sensation running up and down her spine. It was a habit she had basically been forced into, but it had taken ahold of her. And Georgie was right. It did help. 

“Places, girls, we start in two!” Elle called, her theatricality replaced with business, “Nora, you ready for your first show?”

“You bet!” Ophelia leapt to her feet and strutted to Elle, who held her arms outstretched, “Do I look alright?” She felt oddly confident in her blue corset, paired with fishnets and sky-high heels.

“You look _fabulous_ , darling,” Elle fluffed Ophelia’s newly dyed and done up hair, “I knew that was the color for you. Assets, assets.” She had taken Ophelia, just days before, to a salon, where she had prohibited her from looking in the mirror until they were finished. Within an hour, Ophelia had been given a full head of bright ombre hair, that was red at the roots, turned an orange hue the color of embers, and then blonde again. The other girls had compared it to fire, and Ophelia could not complain. 

After months of rehearsal, Elle had deemed Ophelia ready to perform, and they had spent the entire day rearranging the lineup so that she would be a featured performer. Most of the girls had been rather impressed with Ophelia’s dance ability, but others had been perturbed by Elle’s budding favoritism. She had earned a nickname almost immediately, a privilege that the most seasoned employees earned. Ophelia just figured it was because she was something new. She had been dubbed “Firecracker” within the first week of rehearsals. 

And now it was time for Ophelia to put all her work to the test. 

Convincing Will of the legitimacy of her job had been a challenge. Naturally, he had an aversion to the whole atmosphere of the place. But it wasn’t nearly as trashy as people made it out to be. They were really dancing, and they were really entertaining people, even if it was through the medium of corsets and glitter. 

“Welcome to The Black Cat,” Elle’s voice floated through the packed lounge and she slunk across the stage as, behind her, the girls all gathered at the end of the stage, lit by footlights, moving in place to the beat of the music played by the bawdy quartet on the opposite end of the room, “Say hello to Scarlett, Coco, Lindsay, Gigi, Georgie...” she rattled off the list of names, ending with, “and the newest addition to the family, our little American firecracker... Nora!” Ophelia struck a pose and the crowd roared and thumped on their tables as the spotlight illuminated her. She felt the oh-so-familiar pump of adrenaline begin to build in her chest.

The footlights flared as Elle sashayed from the stage. The girls were all suddenly bathed in pink and red light as they hit each beat with sharp, risqué movements as they moved downstage toward the audience. Each of them, standing in a line, kicked their legs into the air, shimmied, and spun to the beat, the audience cheering and whistling. Waiters and waitresses hurried back and forth from the bar, to the tables, to the booths, and back again. The show flowed without a hitch, number after number, Ophelia staying with the rhythm of the process with poise that oozed magnetic confidence. She truly hit her stride, and before she knew it, the last number had ended and the curtain had closed. Though the music had returned to a slow, jazzy candor, Ophelia’s head still pounded and her entire body vibrated. 

“Oh... my... _GOD_!” Ophelia cried, throwing her hands into the air and shimmying as she and the rest of the girls rushed back into the dressing room. Feathers, glitter, and sequins flew through the air; the show had been their biggest and most successful yet. 

“Fantastic job, girls, just absolutely brilliant!” Elle appeared at the door to the dressing room, her cheeks flushed pink from her frequent visits to the bar during the show, “now get on out there and unwind with the clients! You’ve earned it! And cocktails on me!”

The girls cheered and began to disperse, some pulling out cigarettes and lighting them. Ophelia bent down to fix herself in the mirror. 

“Hey, Nora,” Elle clapped her on the back, “There’s someone here who asked for you personally. He’s in the roped-off booth in the back.” She wiggled her eyebrows and bit her lip, but Ophelia’s stomach dropped. 

“Who is it?” she stood and turned to face Elle, who towered over her in platform boots. 

“Some guy,” Elle shrugged, “He’s American, though. I think he’s some big businessman in New York, or something. Big, burly guy. Go talk to him! Maybe he’ll invest.”

Ophelia gulped, “Okay. Okay, sure.” And with that, Elle was off, dancing and shimmying toward Vince, who had appeared in the doorway with a tray of shot glasses filled with pink liquid. 

Before she entered the jungle of people, surely walking to her demise, Ophelia leaned back against the table, her hand fumbling over pallets of eyeshadow and tubes of lipstick. She took a deep breath. If Hannibal had found her here, what would she do? What would Will do? Perhaps he had already gotten to Will. Hannibal would at least have to spare Will. He had done nothing wrong. 

Ophelia sucked in a deep breath, puffing out her chest against the restraints of the corset. She strutted through the curtain to the main room, an air of false confidence about her. The room was pounding with the music of the band onstage, and the sound of alcohol-induced revelry nearly drowned it all out. Ophelia slipped through the maze of tables, waving and smiling at club patrons who called out to her. She felt the tips of her fingers tingle, and she could not discern whether it was from anticipation or the drugs she had partaken in before the show. 

The red booth reserved for people of some importance was roped off at the back of the room and was surrounded by a velvet curtain for privacy. Usually it was occupied by business tycoons keen on escaping the monotony of their daily lives. But tonight, Ophelia knew not what awaited her there. And she truly did not want to know. 

But, when she pulled back the red curtain, she did not find Hannibal Lecter there. She exhaled heavily as she took in the large, bulky man who sat observing her as well. He was one of the most enormous men she had ever seen, with tattoos covering much of his skin. His eyes were a piercing shade of turquoise; they seemed to see directly through Ophelia.

“Nora Spencer, the American firecracker,” the man greeted her with a rough voice befitting his appearance, “I am so glad you made time to come see me. The show was just spectacular, I have to say.”

“Well, thank you, Mister....” Ophelia trailed off. 

“Vegas,” the man extended a hand, “Believe it or not, my surname is Vegas. It’s a curse, really, despite what you may think. Sit, sit! Let me buy you a drink.” As Ophelia slid into the booth beside him, a waiter appeared, taking Vegas’s order, which was quite a hefty one. 

“So,” Ophelia crossed her legs under the table as she took a sip of the drink that appeared before her, “a fellow American. What brings you to London? And to The Black Cat?” She flipped her ombre hair over her shoulder and sniffed, rubbing the underside of her nose.

Vegas sniffed, shrugging, “A bit of culture, I suppose. I do business in New York, see, and believe it or not, it can get a bit boring. The nightlife falls into a pattern of repetition; you can’t get much like this in New York. Less taste in the States, I think. A friend recommended the shows here, and I have to say I am not disappointed in the least.”

Ophelia had already begun to feel the drinks taking an effect on her, “I am so, so glad you chose The Black Cat, Mister Vegas. It’s great to see a fellow red, white, and blue once in a while, and I don’t see many of them.” Ophelia took another large drink, at the prompting of Vegas. A few of her fellow dancers waved to her from across the room and she leaned out of the booth and waved enthusiastically, not noticing as Vegas popped a small pink pill into the already fizzing cocktail. 

“So, tell me,” Vegas said slowly as Ophelia took another giant swig of the fizzing drink, “How did you come to find yourself in London? You’re, what, twenty one? Twenty two? You should be in college on a beach somewhere.”

Ophelia squinted, the drink immediately taking her thoughts and turning it to mush. She took a deep breath, trying her best to be coherent, “Moved here with my brother. He’s a teacher. Real, real smart. Yeah, that’s it pretty much.”

Vegas hummed noncommittally, watching for a long while as Ophelia sipped her drink. He could immediately see that the drink was going straight to her head, and with the drugs that she had obviously taken, she was completely slurred. 

“Tell me,” Vegas leaned into her, taking and holding her attention on his face, “Why are you _really_ here? Open up to me. I’m a friend now.”

Ophelia sighed, “It’s a complicated story, Mister Vegas. Not exactly fun talk.” 

He sat in silence, watching her think, as the music shook the next round of drinks that had been brought to the table. 

“Were you... running from something?” Vegas suggested, “Perhaps you were coerced into coming here.”

“Yeah, yeah I was,” Ophelia looked at Vegas through her blurred eyes as if they were as clear as crystal, “There was this... guy. That’s how all the stories go, right? Guy and girl can’t be together so girl leaves, blah, blah, blah.... _My_ story is funny because the guy I’m in love with wants to kill me!” Ophelia burst into laughter, “Isn’t that just messed up? I thought that he felt the same way, but he wants to freaking _murder_ me! And I love him. Messed up. But that’s me. Just messed up.” Ophelia’s words were becoming more and more slurred, less and less intelligible. 

“It gives you depth,” Vegas assured her with a sugar-coated falseness, “You said you came here with your brother?”

Ophelia snorted, shaking her head, “We don’t even look alike!” 

“So... not your brother?”

“Nah,” Ophelia leaned back, trying desperately to regain control of the words that were spilling from her mouth, “I mean... no. Yeah. No.”

Vegas took a deep breath, then abruptly changed the subject, “You have very green eyes, Nora. Any Irish relatives down the line?”

Ophelia shrugged, “I think maybe.”

“Good girl,” Vegas began to slide out of the booth, “Come with me, alright? I’m going to get you home safe. Wait right here, I’ve got a check to write for your boss.”

Ophelia waited as Vegas weaved through the tables toward Elle, who was in the midst of schmoozing a group of elderly, wealthy-looking women. He pulled Elle away from the gaggle, reaching into his pocket and extracting a rather thick check book. Elle’s eyes widened and flicked over to where Ophelia sat. She took the check from Vegas’s hands as if it would explode, then scurried off, presumably to find Vince. Vegas returned to Ophelia immediately, leading her to the door and out into the street. He covered her with his jacket; she had not changed out of her costume. She began to protest, suggesting she return to collect her things, but Vegas nearly shoved her in the direction of the train. 

After a bit of digging, he managed to get her to reveal where she would be going: to Cambridge. Vegas bought her a ticket and, after receiving quite a few dirty looks, helped her board the train. He sat beside her, catching her head as she began to fall asleep in the compartment as the train began to move. She babbled to him about The Black Cat and about the girls there, her head resting on his shoulder as they chugged along, and soon they found themselves at the dark Cambridge station. Vegas looked down at his watch; it was nearly two in the morning. 

Will Graham stood on the platform, waiting, when the doors slid open. Below his glasses, his eyes burned with anger, and his mouth curled downward in a frown. He looked as if he had just rolled out of bed. 

“Jack!” Ophelia threw herself forward, landing squarely in Will’s arms, “What are you doing here?” She hiccuped, and Will pulled her upright, though she towered over him in her heels.

“I got a call from Elle,” he glared at Vegas, “She was worried about Nora.”

“Hey, no worries,” Vegas held his hands up in surrender, “I just wanted to help our good friend here get home safe.”

“I could have taken care of that,” Will stepped in front of Ophelia. 

“Sure,” Vegas smiled, “I guess I should be going, then. I got what I came for.” He turned and stepped back onto the train, just as the doors closed behind him. 

“Bye, bye!” Ophelia called, waving her hand in the general direction of where Vegas had disappeared. 

Will grabbed Ophelia around the wrist and began to cart her toward where his car was parked, “Come on. What the hell happened to you? What are you _wearing_? You reek of booze and smoke.”

Ophelia sniffed and rubbed the bottom of her nose, “I was at work, _bro_.”

“I don’t like that place,” Will nearly shoved her down into the car, “especially when it involves guys like that. Who was that, anyhow?”

“His last name is Vegas. How cool is that?” Ophelia struggled to buckle her seatbelt; her vision was beginning to blur and her head was beginning to pound. She knew she would need a fix in the morning.

“You could have been hurt,” Will muttered, “Or found out.” He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, and stared straight ahead. Time and time again, he had made it clear that he did not approve of her job. It was dangerous. It was provocative. And most of all it was stupid. Ophelia had come home in this state before, but this was the first time that her boss had even feared for her safety. Clearly, something was different about this instance. 

The moonlight shone in beams through the window and harshly illuminated the harsh, greenish pallor of her skin. Ophelia had lost considerable weight and luster, and she tried her best to cover it up with layers of makeup. She was miserable; that much was clear to Will, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. Her job was a miserable excuse for a living and a miserable excuse for dance, as she tried so hard to pass it off as. The Black Cat might as well have been a meat auction. And if the past weeks had gone to show anything, she would be back in this state within twenty-four hours.

Will knew why she did it, though. He knew why she had taken to drinking, to partying with her “friends”, and to the illegal substances that she clearly was hooked on. She talked in her sleep. Ophelia had conversations with an invisible presence about the most trivial things. In her dreams, she was with Hannibal. In her dreams she was not afraid of him. But Will knew that could never be a reality. 

And so did Ophelia. She was completely aware that her fears would catch up to her, as would her desires. Hopefully that day would not come for a while. 

 


	22. Chapter 22

Hannibal had never been to a club such as this one before, and as he sat at a table alone, drink in hand, he understood why. The place was incredibly tacky, with black and red velvet curtains intertwined with beads hung from the walls and the ceilings, and a glitter-covered stage that curved halfway around the room like a pseudo-catwalk. The only thing missing was a pole.

_Unbearably kitschy_ , Hannibal thought to himself. Women in dresses as tight as bandages and men in open vests and low-hanging trousers wove from table to table, bringing drinks and appetizers to and from the long bar at the back of the room. Loud music was played by a quartet on stage left, and a tall blonde woman floated around them, adjusting their bow ties and popping them on the rears with her jewel-encrusted hands. 

Hannibal resisted the urge to grimace. He felt incredibly out of place in his tailored suit and Italian shoes. Everyone who filed in around him dressed like caricatures of real Londoners. Incredibly tacky. 

The lights began to dim as a waitress set a glass of wine onto the table next to him. He barely noticed her batting her false eyelashes. 

“Welcome to The Black Cat,” a silky voice floated through the speakers that were situated all around the room. The stage was dim, save a few footlights, but Hannibal could still make out sixteen feminine silhouettes as they strut onto the stage. As the silky voice rattled off a list of names, a spotlight found the girls one by one. They posed provocatively, waving and blowing kisses to the audience. 

And then a head of red hair was thrown into the light. Piercing green eyes blinked wildly against the lights from beneath heavy lashes. And long legs clad in fishnet tights and garters carried her forward as she twirled around, soaking in the cheers and howls that rose from the audience. 

“And Nora!” the voice put a false name to Ophelia’s so drastically changed face. She looked almost skeletal; the only thing giving her the illusion of health was the bright smear of rouge on her cheeks. Hannibal’s fists clenched beneath the table as Ophelia fell into step with the rest of the girls. He knew not what to think. 

At first, he was outraged and thought of jumping onstage right then and there. He imagined himself grabbing her and carting her off. Would she be glad to see him? Or would she be afraid, as he feared? 

Hannibal was entirely focused on Ophelia’s face as she strutted to the center of the stage, where a spotlight awaited her. The others had left and a new number had begun, leaving her alone to dance and flounce about. The crowd clearly agreed with her theatrically provocative movements. Hannibal only felt anger and a bit of shame that somehow he had a hand in pushing her to these depths. She barely even looked like the Ophelia that he loved so dearly. 

He watched her from the darkness, grateful that she could not see past the first few rows of tables. But soon she left the stage, only to be replaced by a smaller, more buxom woman with ratty black hair. Not Hannibal’s cup of tea. He slipped from his table and made his way to the bar, sitting directly in front of the bartender, a man who looked as if he had come directly from _Grease_. 

“Hey,” Hannibal tried his best to sound casual, “Who was that last one?”

“Nora,” the bartender nodded, his hair so slick that it didn’t budge an inch, “She’s somethin’, huh?”

Hannibal nodded, taking a sip of his wine, “Yeah. What’s she all about?”

“Well, she’s been here for a little over a month, but she’s fit in right well,” he poured a drink and slid it down the bar to another man who had appeared to Hannibal’s left, “She’s bloody fit, too.”

“I’d like very much to meet her,” Hannibal downed the rest of his wine, the idea of strangling the bartender becoming rather appealing.

“She and the rest of the girls are coming to a party at my flat after the show, man. ‘Fraid, she’s booked for the night. She’s working tomorrow, though. Doing a bit of bar tending work with me before the show.” He winked and Hannibal’s fists curled into tights balls beneath the bar. 

“Fantastic,” Hannibal smiled through clenched teeth. After refilling his wine glass, Hannibal returned to his table. The rest of the show consisted of a few more languid, slinky solo numbers from sleazy-looking girls, save the final number, during which Ophelia was front and center. She looked nearly insane, her pupils dilated and her hands quivering throughout the entire rapid-paced song. 

When the show had ended and the house lights had come back up, the club started to clear out rather quickly. It seemed as if everyone knew about the bartender’s party. Hannibal waited at his table for a moment, expecting Ophelia to appear, but soon the club was nearly empty and there was no sign of Ophelia. 

“Hey, suit guy!” a nasal voice startled Hannibal. He turned to see two of the dancers approaching him, arm-in-arm. They were dressed in similar getups to Ophelia’s: corsets, fishnet tights, and impossibly tall heels. They resembled clowns, with makeup plastered on their skin.

“Hello,” he stood.

“I saw you during the show,” the black-haired girl with the nasal voice popped her hip, “And I think you should come to the party. As my date.”

“No, as _my_ date!” the other girl squealed, “we were the girls on the catwalks, remember? We spotted you. We’re _observant_. And you’ve got this whole suave vibe going on that we don’t get around here a lot. We didn’t tell anyone else, though. You’re our secret.”

“What are your names, ladies?” Hannibal played along. He could lose these girls as soon as he reached the party. He just had to get to Ophelia. 

“Coco,” the black haired girl winked, hiccuping. The stench of vodka on her breath was appalling. 

“Georgie,” the other girl held a hand out to Hannibal, who played his part well by planting a kiss on her hand. 

“So,” Hannibal grinned, poisonously charming, “Let’s see about this party, shall we?” He took the girls arm-in-arm, allowing them to pull him along, out of the club and down the street. Following them in silence, he listened to them talking about the most trivial things. Through the streets they strutted, Hannibal in somewhat reluctant tow.  

They finally arrived at a tall brick building after quite a bit of walking, lit up from every window. Hannibal could already hear the sounds of loud industrial music and bawdy laughter. The girls led him through the front doors and into an enormous foyer packed with people from nearly every walk of life, or so it seemed. Many of the women were dressed just as provocatively as Coco and Georgie, and most of the men quite resembled the bartender; greasy and unappealing. 

Hannibal had to take a moment to appreciate the beauty of the place, though it was filled to the brim with intoxicated twenty-somethings. Directly across a wide tile mosaic before the front doors was a long, wide staircase that then branched into two separate paths. To the left, underneath the staircase, was an open archway that led to an entirely stainless steel kitchen, while the archway on the left led to a sitting room with an enormous fireplace. The ceiling was tall and vaulted, and was painted with light pastels. The whole place was lit with crystal chandeliers.

“Nora!” a voice from amongst the crowd pulled Hannibal from his observations, “Get in here! We’ve got lines for ya’!” Hannibal pulled away from Coco and Georgie, who did not seem to mind, and followed the voice through the crowd and into the living room. He could barely think due to the pounding music, and he could barely make out any definite faces in the sea of people, but he still managed to pick out Ophelia’s tinkling laugh amongst the rest. 

He spotted her then, kneeling beside the glass coffee table. A group of people surrounded her and another girl, cheering them on as they pulled their hair out of their faces. Hannibal watched as Ophelia, clad in nothing but lacy purple underwear and a kimono-like wrap, leaned over the table, her face hovering over a long line of white powder. The girl beside her did the same, and after a count of three, they began to inhale it furiously. Ophelia threw her hands into the air once her line had disappeared, and they crowd cheered. 

The grease-haired bartender appeared from the crowd and pulled Ophelia to her feet by the sash on her kimono. She jumped up and down, cheering and laughing as he led her into a different room, away from Hannibal’s watchful eyes. 

His heart sank and his stomach twisted. He had driven her to this; he had driven her to the rock bottom in which she lived. And it was he who would save her. 

 


	23. Chapter 23

Ophelia stumbled into the kitchen, her heart pounding on full speed and her head whirring with a hundred different thoughts at once. She danced wildly to the thumping music as Leo, the bartender, grabbed a beer from the fridge and tossed it to her. 

“Thanks!” Ophelia took a swig and let out a wordless, adrenaline-filled whoop, “Man, I feel great! I wanna dance, Leo, I wanna dance!”

“Let’s go, America!” Leo grabbed ahold of the sash on her kimono and pulled her from the kitchen and out into the foyer. She could have sworn she heard someone calling her name, but she ignored it, following Leo to the top of the stairs, where he turned up the music and set her free to dance around wildly. 

“ _Woohoo_!” she threw her hands in the air, then tok a deep swig of her drink, standing at the top of the stairs, at the pinnacle of the group of people. She suddenly felt as if she was at the top of the world. She felt as if every particle of her body was tingling, and for a moment every care in the world was erased. 

But then, they were brought crashing back. Through the crowd, at the back of the room, stood Hannibal. Ophelia’s face slowly crumbled as his eyes met hers. She let her beer slip through her fingers and shatter on the marble steps below her bare feet. All of the fear, anger, and sadness that she had felt replaced her momentary high. And she knew she had to get away. 

Ophelia turned and threw herself into the crowd, pushing up the stairs and dashing down the hallway. She cared not that people were in her way; she shoved, dodged, and weaved. Nor did she dare to look over her shoulder as she went, for she could almost feel him behind her. People greeted her as she passed, much to her dismay. She only wished to disappear. 

How had he found her here? She had changed her name and her appearance. She had gone as underground as she possibly could, and yet somehow here he was. Perhaps she could slip out of a back window and escape into the night. She would run far away, far from Will. If anything, she had to save Will, even if she was doomed. 

“Where the bloody hell is Nora?” Leo’s voice rang down the hallway as he turned down the music a few decibels, “Where’d you disappear to, girl? Come back and get a drink! Nora!” Ophelia ducked into a bedroom, shutting the door behind her and scrambling underneath the bed. 

“She just came down this way!” a drunken voice responded from in the hallway that Ophelia had just passed through. She cursed the nameless voice. 

And then the door to the bedroom opened, and time seemed to slow. Fine Italian shoes entered the room, stopping as the door shut behind them. 

“Ophelia,” Hannibal’s voice was resigned, as if he was unbearably tired, “Don’t make me hunt you any longer. I know you’re here somewhere.”

She clasped her hand over her mouth, the sound of her breath suddenly far too loud. 

“I hear my good friend Mister Vegas had been to speak with you,” Hannibal continued, pacing from the window, to the closet, and back, “He informed me of your location, in fact. I suppose you could say I was... less than pleased with his report.”

Hannibal’s feet disappeared from her line of vision, but she daren’t turn to see where he had gone. But then, in a flash, his hands latched onto her ankles and she was wrenched from underneath the bed. She started to scream, but Hannibal clamped his hand over her mouth. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he growled a she pinned her wildly flailing legs down beneath his weight, “But I will if it means that I can take you home, to safety.”

Ophelia tried again to scream, but his hand tightened on her face, his fingers pressing hard into her skin. Her screams turned into sobs as he studied her face. 

“I never wanted to frighten you, Ophelia, but I have to do what I have to do. If you refuse to comply with me, there is a man who is poised to kill Will Graham. It will be swift, and it will be painless, but he will die. Unless you _come home._ Now, I am going to take my hand from your mouth, and you will stand. You and I will leave this cesspool, and together we will go home. If you struggle, or if you scream, I will have Will Graham killed. Do you understand?”

Ophelia nodded, tears flowing down the sides of her face. 

“Alright. Here we go,” Hannibal slowly removed his hand from her mouth and sat up. She stayed silent and still, only moving when he yanked her to her feet. He led her by the arm out of the bedroom and down the hall. 

Leo appeared from the woodwork when they reached the top of the stairs, “Hey, Nora, where you going? Who’s this? Wait... wait, you’re that suit guy! From earlier! Glad to see you found Nora, mate. She’s a wild ride.”

Ophelia shot Leo a look of distress as they passed, and his cheeky grin fell. He watched for a moment as Hannibal pulled Ophelia through the crowd and out into the night, his hand clasped tightly on her forearm. 

The cold night air hit Ophelia like a bullet, but Hannibal paid no attention to her shivering. He pulled her down the sidewalk with purpose, taking back alleys and side roads to avoid the gazes of passersby. Every time they turned onto another street, Ophelia would tug against Hannibal’s vice-like grip, but it would only tighten. 

“Oi!” Leo’s voice suddenly rang out from behind them in the darkness, “Nora! You alright!”

“She is perfectly fine,” Hannibal stopped, shoving Ophelia behind him as he turned to face the greasy boy. 

“She don’t look fine to me,” Leo appeared, his hands balled into fists, “In fact, she looks like she wants to get away from you.” 

“Go back to your party, boy,” Hannibal hissed, “This is a matter far too complicated for you to fathom.”

Leo took a few steps forward, slowly raising his fists, “You let her go now, and there won’t be trouble.” 

Hannibal leapt forward, shoving Leo back against a dumpster that sat against the wall to their left. Leo caught himself against the wall, crying out when his wrist was jammed between the brick and the metal of the dumpster. Hannibal advanced swiftly, not allowing Leo any time to react. He grabbed his head, one hand on each side, and jerked it to the side. His neck snapped, and his body went limp. 

Ophelia took off at a sprint in the opposite direction, the soles of her bare feet stinging as they slapped against the rough pavement. A scream hitched in her throat; she must not draw attention to herself. She could just barely hear Hannibal’s footsteps far behind her as she turned a corner, flying onto a major London street and dodging through the crowds. Disgruntled curses floated along behind her as she ducked and weaved. 

She threw a furtive glance over her shoulder when she was well in the midst of the crowd. Silently, she thanked her lucky stars for the sheer amount of people who were still out on this clear Friday night. And Hannibal was nowhere in sight; she had lost him in the crowd. Ophelia’s head was pounding and her vision was beginning to spin as the high she had felt from the drugs came crashing down around her. The rushing sound of the crowd disoriented her. She rubbed the underside of her nose, inhaling jerkily. 

Through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Hannibal, menacingly cool with his blue tailored suit and steely glare. She broke into a run again, this time heading for the train station. If she could get to Will, she could help him. And they could run. Again. 

The station was less densely packed than the streets; Ophelia had to slow down and try to blend in, though it would be quite difficult in nothing but a kimono and lacy lingerie. Though she received a bevy of odd looks, she kept walking a straight path, her eyes only on the space in front of her. As per her usual schedule, Ophelia boarded the train to Cambridge, ducking underneath the arms of passersby in order to squeeze into the center of the group. 

Ophelia reached up and grabbed ahold of the chrome bar above her head, nodding cordially as the businessman to her right began to look her up and down. She scanned the compartment, quickly memorizing each face. None of them belonged to Hannibal Lecter. She exhaled loudly. 

For the length of the ride, Ophelia did not move an inch. She wanted to be ready to exit the train quickly when they stopped in Cambridge. From the station, it was only a short walk home. But tonight, it would feel dauntingly long. 

The sound of Leo’s neck snapping beneath Hannibal’s hands sent quakes up and down Ophelia’s spine. The animalistic way that he had pounced on her innocent comrade had been utterly disturbing. She had known Hannibal was capable of killing; she just never imagined that she would witness it.

When the train stopped, Ophelia bowled over the sluggish businessman and sprinted out into the night. The streets of Cambridge were significantly less crowded, and once she passed the town limits, she felt as if she had run off the edge of the world. Every so often, as her kimono began to slide off of her shoulder, she would glance behind her, only to be washed with relief that Hannibal was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had not even been able to board the train and was still in London. Or perhaps he was looming in the dark somewhere, just waiting to come up on her. 

Soon, she came upon their small home, all the lights on as usual and smoke rising from the chimney. Ophelia felt her muscles begin to turn to mush; she had not slowed since disembarking from the train. But she leapt up the stairs with as much vim as she could muster, bursting through the door and into the foyer. Her feet caught on the edge of the rug that lay before the entrance, and she went flying, landing face-first on the floor. 

“Will!” she called, pulling herself to her feet, unaware of the carpet burn that had taken off much of the skin on her shins. 

“Ophelia! Upstairs!” Will’s voice was strangled, muffled as if coming from behind a screen. Ophelia scrambled up the rickety oak stairs and hurdled into Will’s bedroom, her chest heaving.

There he loomed, Hannibal, by the window. Will stood by the doorway, his hands above his head and his glasses cracked and knocked askew. 

“Close the door,” Hannibal commanded. He held a gun pointed at Will, and his hands did not waver. Mister Vegas stood beside him, his hands toying mindlessly with the handle of a knife.  
Ophelia obeyed, slowly shutting the door without turning her back to Hannibal. 

“I thought the instructions I gave you were rather clear, my dear,” Hannibal sighed lightly, as if Ophelia had simply broken a vase or spilled a drink, “I thought you understood. I was confident that you would not _run_.”

“You killed Leo,” Ophelia accused, her voice shaking, “You just... snapped his-”

“Yes, well he was going to try and take you from me, wasn’t he?” Hannibal glowered at Ophelia, “And I couldn’t let that happen. Not again.”

“What do you want from me?” Ophelia took a step toward Will, slowly stretching her hand out to him, “You don’t have to hurt Will. He’s a good man, and he’s done nothing wrong.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” Hannibal licked his lips, “By now, I’m sure our friend Will has shared certain things with you that he should not have meddled with in the first place.”

“He told me that you’ve killed people,” Ophelia gritted her teeth, taking another step toward Will. Her fingers were just barely able to touch the side of his sweater. 

“Yes, well-”

“How many people have you killed,” she tried her very best to sound strong, “Doctor Lecter?”

“More than you,” with a sigh, he began to lower his gun, “But that is quite beside the point. See, I forgave you your murders, now you must forgive me mine.”

“You were going to kill _me_!”

“Not entirely false,” Hannibal pursed his lips, his eyes brooding, “At first, I thought you were like the others. Rude, banal, insignificant. But you made me _feel_ , Ophelia, feel alive and feel real. I like to feel real, Ophelia. And I love you for it.”

A sob escaped Ophelia’s throat. It was a sob of terror, sadness, and regret. A sob full of self-deprecation and things unsaid. She loved him, no matter what he had done. She had fallen in love with what she knew of him, and what she had suspected. But she felt as love began to wither and turn to poison. 

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Hannibal took a step toward her, and she took a step back.

“The drawings,” Ophelia latched her fingers onto Will’s sweater. He slowly began to lower his arms. 

“Yes, those,” Hannibal regarded them as nothing but a fleeting nuisance, “A regrettable artistic fallacy. Rather gruesome, but realistic.”

“Why?” Ophelia demanded, “What did they mean? Why me, and why like that?”

“I add only the finest to my collection, Ophelia, make no mistake of that,” Hannibal laughed, “But I added you a bit prematurely, I think. You don’t belong in my collection. You belong with me. With me... is where you need to be.”

“I need,” tears began to flow again, “to be free, Hannibal! You’re a killer! You were going to kill me, and you were going to kill Will if I disobeyed you! You terrify me!”

“You hypocrite,” Vegas took a step forward, “I know your story, _Ophelia_. You’re a dirty whore, is what you are.”

“Don’t... call her that,” Hannibal froze, his eyes darting to the floor. His composure suddenly beginning to melt. 

“What?” Vegas scoffed, “She used you to clear her name. Then she banged ya’ and left you to come slut around with that guy.” He gestured to Will, smirking 

Hannibal whipped around, shooting the gun squarely into Vegas’s chest, “Unforgivably rude, speaking of a lady that way.” Ophelia let out a wail as Will grabbed her around the waist, pulling her down beneath him as Hannibal unloaded a few more round’s into Vegas’s already motionless body. 

Ophelia sobbed wordlessly against Will’s chest, which was pressed protectively over her. 

“Oh, for goodness sakes,” Hannibal tossed the gun onto the bed and strode to where they were huddled. He grabbed Will by the hair, pulling him away from Ophelia. She let out another wordless, screaming cry, her hands flailing after Will as he was wrenched from her. 

“It’s going to be alright,” Will pulled himself away from Hannibal’s grip, falling onto the edge of the bed, “You’re going to be okay, Ophelia.”

“Will is right,” Hannibal towered over her, “You are going to be alright. If you come with me.”

Ophelia fought the urge to shrink away from him even further. “Leave Will,” she muttered. 

“Sorry?”

“Leave Will alone,” Ophelia demanded, her voice stronger, “Let him exist in peace. I’ll come with you. Compliantly.”

“And how am I supposed to believe you after your little stunt earlier?” Hannibal wiped a stray splatter of blood from the corner of his mouth, “Wouldn’t want you running off. Especially not in an airport, where you could so easily disappear.”

Ophelia slowly got to her feet, her entire body shaking with fatigue, fear, and withdrawal, “You have my word, Hannibal. If you promise me that Will gets out of this unscathed, I’ll stay with you. I’ll do whatever you want. If you respect me, and if you... love me, you’ll leave him be.” She held out her hand, and he took it, shaking it firmly. 

“I’m glad you’ve come around, Ophelia, I really am,” Hannibal smiled, “I’ve already got two tickets booked for us in the morning. Perhaps you should clean up. We’ve got a long twenty-four hours ahead of us. For now, I’d like some tea, though. I need to unwind. See? I’m an agreeable person.”

Ophelia stood still, frozen, as Hannibal walked from the room, the gun dangling nonchalantly from his fingertips. When he was out of earshot, she flung herself onto Will, and they stayed locked in an embrace of solidarity for quite sometime. Much unspoken grief was in the embrace, as were goodbyes and apologies. It wasn’t until Hannibal reappeared that they released each other. 

That was the last time Ophelia saw Will Graham. Overnight, she had slept under the tireless watch of Hannibal, who had locked Will in the upstairs bedroom until their departure. Hannibal had watched while she packed her things, and had stood watchfully outside the bathroom while she showered. For a moment, she considered climbing out of the bathroom window, but then she thought of Will, locked in his room, his fate hanging in Hannibal’s hands. She watched his bedroom window as they drove away. 

Ophelia could have sworn she saw the glint of sunlight off of his glasses. 

 


	24. Chapter 24

When the door to the bunker opened again, hours later, Ophelia came to attention immediately. She rolled over on the cot, wiping a dirty strand of hair from her face, and sat up, her legs curled beneath her. Hannibal stood in the doorway, another tray piled with food in his hands. 

“Hello, Ophelia,” he said, his voice rough, as if it were trapped deep in his throat, afraid to come out. Even from across the room, it was clear that every muscle in his body was clenched with apprehension. His eyes fell on the bruise that covered the side of her face in the vague shape of a hand. He had done that to her. His teeth clenched and his stomach fell. Hannibal hadn’t intended to leave a permanent mark on her fragile skin. 

“Hi,” Ophelia smiled genuinely for the first time in quite a while. She tore at her fingernails absentmindedly, letting the smile linger as Hannibal froze, surprised for a moment by her change of tune. 

He broke eye contact, striding to the desk and setting the tray down before the chair, replacing the last plate. It was picked clean, much to his pleasure. 

“I hope you’re hungry,” he said. 

“I am,” Ophelia tried her very best to sound grateful, answering him immediately and with an overtly sugar-coated tone. She swung her feet over the edge of her cot, the chains clanking loudly. Hannibal backed away cautiously as Ophelia meandered over to the desk, her bound foot dragging clunkily along behind her. 

“You had a visitor today,” Hannibal leaned against the wall as Ophelia tore into the steak that he had so meticulously prepared. It was not a question; Bedelia had recounted their meeting word-for-word. Hannibal was simply anxious to find out where Ophelia’s head truly was. 

“Bedelia du Maurier,” Ophelia nodded through a mouthful of food, “Name’s kind of a mouthful.”

Hannibal crossed his arms over his chest, for lack of a better use for them, “How did it go? No problems, so I’ve heard.”

“She made me realize how nasty I look, that’s for sure,” Ophelia snorted and looked up at Hannibal, whose face was a mask of forced tranquility, “But, really, it was fine. She was fine. She was nice. We... talked things out.”

“And?”

“And... it was... enlightening, I guess. It made me think. And re-think.”

“I made you hungry, clearly,” Hannibal flinched and shifted his weight back and forth as Ophelia let out a genuine laugh. It was not a sound he had heard in some time. The sensation it brought upon Hannibal was similar to the feeling one would experience in the midst of an electrical storm. Like there was something in the air, charging the space around every piece of matter. 

“Yeah, I guess it did,” Ophelia took a swig of the glass of water that had come with the enormous slab of meat. 

In the following period of heavy silence, Ophelia scarfed down her food, barely pausing to breathe. Hannibal watched. He was tempted to let himself feel relief, and even hope, but still he was prepared for another outburst. She was, after all, a recovering addict. And she was scared. The two elements should never have mixed. 

Once Ophelia had thoroughly cleaned her plate, she stretched back in her chair. With a contented sigh, she let her head fall back, closing her eyes. Hannibal took this opportunity to swoop in and collect her dinnerware. She looked so normal, so content, there in the greenish light of the bunker. Aside from her skeletal lack of substance and filthy appearance, she quite resembled his Ophelia. 

But her head snapped up and her hand latched onto his wrist before he had a chance to retreat to the other side of the room. She held fast, staring up at him for a long moment. Her fingers dug feebly into his skin.

Ophelia’s gaze was not full of malice, as it had been the day before. Instead, her eyes, sunken and tired, glinted softly up at him and her chapped lips pulled into a tight smile. 

“Thank you,” she muttered, for lack of better words. She decided, then and there, that if Hannibal was so screwed up, then she would just have to be screwed up right alongside him. With no room to judge, she would fit into his puzzle quite well. She felt no fear; there was no murderous intention in his chocolate eyes as they stared down at her then. 

The task now at hand would be earning his trust. Getting back in his good graces. She knew she would have to dig around in her gut and in the back of her mind and extract what was left of the old Ophelia. 

“Y-yes,” Hannibal cleared his throat, not making any moves to escape her grasp. 

Ophelia sighed, “I have to ask you for a favor.” She smiled ruefully, trying her very best to seem as unassuming as possible. It was quite a stretch, asking anything of him now, after all that they had put each other through.

“What might that be?” Hannibal raised one eyebrow, pursing his lips. 

She loosened her grip on his wrist, “What’s a girl gotta do to get a shower around here? If my memory is correct, there’s some rose-scented shampoo back home that’s got my name written all over it.”

Hannibal’s face flooded with relief, a bright shade of pink tinging his skin. He drew away from her feeble grasp, different scenarios running through his mind, each ending in Ophelia attempting an escape. Did she deserve the benefit of the doubt?

Ophelia could obviously sense his apprehension, for in one swift motion she ripped at the bottom of her shirt until she held a thick strip of cloth in her hands. 

“Here,” she held it out to Hannibal, “Tie my hands or something. I’m not going anywhere. I just want a shower.”

He took the strip of dirty white fabric from her and held it for a moment, his eyes never leaving her face, “You are quite adept at running, Ophelia. And climbing, I’m sure. And I have no desire to lead you out of here by the length of a rope, like livestock.”

Ophelia flushed, “Please, Hannibal. Trust me. You can stand in the bathroom with me if you want. Just... trust me. Please. I want to at least smell like Ophelia Ford again.”

Hannibal let a small smile play on his lips for a moment, “Fine. I suppose a shower wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“Great!” Ophelia threw her hands into the air and grinned, standing tall as Hannibal moved to unlock the chain around her ankle. For the briefest of moments, escape crossed her mind. Outside, she could easily make a break for the woods surrounding the bunker. She could disappear. 

But those thoughts were erased from her mind when Hannibal’s fingers wound around her wrist. She shivered at the slight touch. It was gentle, as if she were made of porcelain. 

Ophelia looked down and grabbed Hannibal’s hand with both of hers. With a great, purposeful thump, she pressed their palms together and locked her fingers with his. He stared down at their intertwined hands for a moment as Ophelia straightened her back again, waiting patiently for Hannibal to lead the way. 

His grip tightened on her hand as he pushed through the heavy metal doors and out into the freezing night air. It was a small gesture, but he found it quite wonderful nonetheless. Something his Ophelia would have done, surely. Perhaps Bedelia had broken through the barrier, and she was coming back to him. 

“Jesus Christ,” Ophelia immediately began to shiver.

Hannibal smirked, “It’s winter, Ophelia. I’m not sure what you expected.” The ground was icy beneath their feet, and their breath puffed out before them like small wisps of smoke. The inside of Hannibal’s car, though, was still quite warm, and the seat warmers kicked into action soon enough. 

“The drive,” Hannibal spun the car out onto the road, ignoring Ophelia’s small flinch as they nearly skidded out of control on the ice, “is not a long one. You will be home in no time.”

“And clean,” Ophelia sighed, staring out of the window into the dark night. 

“And clean.”

They drove in silence, the tension thick between them. Ophelia appeared to have imploded, with her arms and legs pulled as close to her torso as she could manage. Hannibal wanted nothing more than to reach across the space between them and take her hand in his again. But he knew that he could not push it; she would come around on her own. 

“Small steps,” Bedelia had instructed, after assuring Hannibal that his Ophelia had returned, “You can’t frighten her. Or smother her. If you do, this will all begin anew.”

Hannibal glanced down at Ophelia again. In her he saw a second chance. Redemption. He began to reach slowly across the gap between them, his fingers just inches away from her elbow. 

Suddenly, before he could touch her again, a great black stag darted out from the darkness flanking the road and sprung directly in their path. It tossed its enormous head, the too-familiar prongs of its antlers seeming to shine in the glare of the headlights. Ophelia let out a blood-curdling scream as Hannibal jerked the wheel to the side as hard as he could, sending the car skidding across a patch of ice and off the road. The car flew past the stag and into the darkness, crashing headlong into the woods. The last thing Hannibal saw was the trunk of an enormous Beech, ripping between them. 

 


	25. Chapter 25

Hannibal Lecter lay face-up in a hospital bed. It had been quite a long time since he had been on this end of the hospital system, and it did not please him. A bandage covered his torso, and another wrapped around his shoulder, accompanied by a blue mesh sling. He could feel bruises beneath his eyes throbbing in protest of the harsh fluorescents above his head. The incessant beeping by his ear was like to drive him mad, as was the blaring television across from the bed.

“You’re awake. Good,” a nurse bustled into the room, a clipboard in hand. 

“I’ve been awake for quite some time,” Hannibal muttered, his eyes still trained on the ceiling. 

“You should have buzzed me, Mister Lecter,” the nurse tittered, scribbling on the clipboard, “Your vitals look good. You should be able to get on out of here within the next day or so.”

“How is she?” Hannibal held his breath. The nurses had told him next to nothing about Ophelia’s condition. All he knew was that she had survived. 

The nurse sighed, throwing a glance over her shoulder, and then leaned down so that her lips were just above his ear, “I’m really not supposed to say anything, but I don’t see what harm it’ll do. She’s fine. Stable. Asleep, but with a great deal of head injury. Not to mention how malnourished she is. The important thing is that she’s alive. We’ll have to keep her asleep for a while, I’m afraid. You should be very thankful that you were found so quickly by that hunter.”

Hannibal nodded, biting down onto the inside of his lip as hard as he could possibly bear, “Thank you very much.” His stomach growled and the nurse smiled with sympathy. 

“I’ll bring you some lunch, then,” she collected a stack of papers from the table by Hannibal’s bed, “It’s chicken salad day in the cafeteria.”

“Fantastic,” Hannibal resisted the urge to grimace as his appetite instantly waned at the thought of cafeteria mystery meat. He watched as the nurse left, then set his mind to sitting up. A web of wires and pricking needles made the process cumbersome, but he managed to pull himself upright with his good arm and throw his legs over the side of the bed. His chest felt heavy, and with each breath the weight of it seemed to double. 

After the car had crashed into the woods, Hannibal had found himself stuck between the mangled metal exterior of the car and the tree into which they had crashed.He had been painfully aware of all of it, from four of his ribs snapping, to the Ophelia-less silence, to the appearance of their unlikely savior. 

As if on cue, their rescuer appeared in the doorway. Hannibal did not look up at him; though he had saved their lives, he was sure that this was a part of his plan to tear him from Ophelia again. He would rather have an audience with Freddie Lounds than have to make nice with Will, who he had assumed would have the smarts to stay clear of he and Ophelia after what had transpired in Cambridge. 

“How are you feeling?” Will Graham crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe. His tone lacked sincerity. Hannibal could not say he blamed him. 

“Well enough,” Hannibal stared down at his lap, just barely covered by the dingy hospital down. He despised feeling so exposed in Will’s presence. He despised Will’s presence in general. It reminded him quite harshly of the feeling of failure. 

“And Ophelia?” Will slid his glasses up the bridge of his nose; they had begun to droop, hanging precariously on the tip. He blinked furiously, clearly struggling to maintain his steady gaze on Hannibal’s face. 

“Alive. Broken, but here. That is all that matters.”

Will nodded, “Agreed.” At last, they agreed on something. 

“She’s asleep.”

“Not a surprise, really,” Will shook his head, “She really must have flown. Was she wearing a seatbelt?”

Hannibal shook his head, “I’m afraid I didn’t notice.”

“I’d bet money she wasn’t,” Will rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darkening, “Straight through the windshield and into a cluster of trees.”

“I wonder, though,” Hannibal’s eyes snapped upward, “How you happened to stumble upon us so quickly. With a hunting rifle, no less.”

Will pursed his lips, his eyes still trained on Hannibal’s bruised face. There was pity in his eyes, but also malice. And anger. It seemed as if strong words danced on the tip of his tongue, but before they had a chance to manifest, the nurse reentered the room with a tray of bland-looking cafeteria food. Will slipped away as the nurse flew into a tizzy over Hannibal, pushing him back down onto the bed and trapping him there with the plastic tray. 

The following few days were a monotonous cycle of cafeteria food, needles, and Will Graham. Mostly, he was only a quick flash of flannel passing by the door to Hannibal’s room, but sometimes he would linger, perhaps relishing the sight of seeing Hannibal so restrained and helpless. But the majority of Will’s time in the hospital was spent in the Intensive Care Unit. Sometimes he passed by carrying flowers. Sometimes he carried small stuffed animals from the gift store. Without fail, Will managed to spend time with Ophelia that should be Hannibal’s.

The day that Hannibal was to be released, Will appeared in the hall outside of his cell-room. He was partially obscured by a small gaggle of doctors, but Hannibal could still see that his face was quite serious. His heart dropped. Had something happened to Ophelia? Was she alive? Or had she succumbed to her injuries?

Hannibal’s heart fell even further when the crowd of scrubs began to disappear, revealing Will’s true conversational partner. Alana Bloom, a file full of papers clutched in her hands, cast a glance over her shoulder at Hannibal. When she realized that they were being watched, she took Will by the arm and pulled him away, toward the ICU. Toward Ophelia. 

Hannibal pressed the “call” button on the machine by his bedside over and over, willing his nurse to appear. She finally obeyed, an ornery expression on her face. 

“I heard the buzzing the first time, Mr. Lecter,” she sighed, “What can I do for you?”

“When can I get up?” Hannibal snapped, “When can I leave this room?”

“If you had waited just another five minutes or so,” the nurse began to flutter around the machines, “You would have been brought your discharge papers. But since you’re so eager, I’ll get you all ready to go and you can sign them on your way out.”

“I just want to see Ophelia,” Hannibal muttered, his jaw clenching and unclenching. 

“You can do that when you’re officially discharged,” the nurse pulled the IV from his hand and slapped a bandage onto the bit of blood that it left behind, “but as of right now you are still under my care. Now, you have to wear that brace to allow your bones to mend if you’re going to insist on refusing a wheelchair. And the sling should be optional by now; your shoulder reset quite easily.”

“Alright,” Hannibal fought the urge to get up and leave the room immediately. As much as he despised rudeness, he despised not knowing of Ophelia’s condition even more. 

The nurse plopped a netted bag onto the foot of his bed, “Here are your clothes. Washed, dried, and ironed. I’ll be right back with your papers.”

Hannibal nodded curtly, taking the bag from her clutches and waiting as the plump woman left the room. Despite the pain that quick movement brought him, he changed quickly, thankful to be back in something other than old polyester. He slipped his arm from the sling, flinching as his shoulder popped. 

Without waiting for the nurse to return, Hannibal hurried from the room, going only as fast as the stitches in his side would allow. He wove through the halls, following sign after sign through the maze of rooms and halls until he came to the great red double doors with the enormous letters “ICU” painted across the front. He slipped through them, getting through only on the coattails of an unsuspecting doctor. 

The ICU was lined with sectioned-off beds, which were in turn surrounded by machines, pumps, tubes, and wires. He spotted Alana and Will almost immediately, hunched over a bed on the far end of the long room, listening to a nurse who was gesturing to the bed, and presumably to Ophelia. They jerked upward as he approached. 

“You’re here,” Alana cleared her throat, straightening her back and stepping between Hannibal and Will. 

“Step aside,” Hannibal pushed past her and through the partially closed curtain, ignoring Will entirely. 

There sat Ophelia, looking small, fragile, and incredibly broken. An oxygen tube rested beneath her nose, and enormous stitches criss-crossed the side of her head. Herbody was covered almost entirely by blankets, but her hands rested gingerly at her sides. Her arms were littered with splotchy patches of purple and green, and her knuckles were red and raw. _She had struggled._ Hannibal’s stomach flopped. 

“Ophelia,” he knelt beside her bed, ignoring Will and Alana’s apprehensive gazes, “How do you feel?”

It took a moment for her eyes to truly focus on his face, “My head hurts.” Her eyes were only halfway open, as if she had just awoken from a deep slumber.

“I’ll get you something for that,” her nurse muttered, hurrying off and leaving the three of them to watch over Ophelia. 

“What happened?” she looked up at Alana and Will, her eyes squinting and her chest heaving painfully. 

“You were in an accident,” Hannibal answered before the others could, “But you’re fine now.”

“Is anyone else hurt, doctor?” Ophelia stared up at Hannibal, her heart monitor picking up significantly and her eyes widening. He froze, as did Alana and Will. 

“P-pardon?” Hannibal stuttered. 

“Did anyone else get hurt in the accident?” she began to fiddle nervously with her fingers, flinching when the needle in her hand tugged against the skin. 

“You... are aware of who I am, right?” Hannibal was suddenly very conscious of the two pairs of eyes on his back. 

“You’re my doctor,” Ophelia stated, her voice cracking.

Hannibal stared down at her, his jaw hanging open and his mind going entirely blank, “No, I....” His chest tightened and his throat constricted as he slowly began to shake his head. He fought for words as Ophelia stared expectantly up at him, waiting for some sort of doctorly advice. 

The nurse appeared to give Ophelia a strong dose of pain medication, so Hannibal was shooed to the end of the bed. Standing there by Alana and Will, he felt empty. Where he expected to find anger, he only found nothingness. Ophelia did not know him. She did not remember him. What _did_ she remember? 

Alana pulled the nurse aside after Ophelia had drifted back into a medicinal slumber. Will took a seat in one of the small plastic chairs to the right of Ophelia’s bed, and Hannibal to the left, a tableau they were all too familiar with. Alana and the nurse muttered to each other, throwing glances over their shoulders at Ophelia ever so often. 

“No parents?” the nurse pursed her lips. 

Alana shook her head, “Both dead. Mother when she was a child, and father in the crash.”

“And custody has fallen to you, then?”  
She sighed, her poker face securely intact, “I suppose. It’s really no trouble; Ophelia has always been a good kid. It’ll be good for her to be back around family friends for a while.” Lying through her teeth was not something Alana Bloom relished doing. But it was the only way. With the help of Jack Crawford and a few of his colleagues in the world of court legality, Ophelia had been legally written into her custody. True, she was a legal adult, but because of her fragile condition, Alana had been able to pull some strings. 

When Ophelia had first awoken, she had flown into a panic, tearing at the tubes that were down her throat and in her nose. Luckily, Will had been there to calm her as much as he could. But they soon had realized what the true damage of the accident was. She had not known Alana or Will, and now she did not know Hannibal. When asked what she did remember, she had launched into a slurred recounting of a “particularly brutal” Zumba class and a medicated rant about a girl named Annie DeGroot. She had no memory of the accident, her captivity in Hannibal’s bunker, London, or really anything at all. When the doctors had told her about the crash, she had burst into hysterics and had to be sedated.

The doctors had been surprised. Considering Ophelia had flown from the car as far and as forcefully as she did, they were expecting her to remain in a vegetative state for the rest of her life. They insisted that she had gotten off easy. A bit of head trauma and memory loss was an easy out, they said. 

Hannibal stared blankly at Ophelia’s sleeping face. He watched as her chest rose and fell with every labored breath. The veins in her neck pulsed slowly and her fingers twitched subtly as she dreamed. Her face was bruised and swollen, but she was still beautiful. But he realized he could not tell her that now. She did not know who he was. Or how ardently he loved her. Once, they had been two birds blown together by the same fateful bout of wind. But now he was alone. 

For the second time, he and Will sat on either side of the brink between existence and oblivion; it was a fine line on which Ophelia lay. The last time they had manned each side of this line, Hannibal had Abigail Hobbs on his side. But now, he feared, he would lose Ophelia across the line. He would lose her to Will Graham. 

That is, unless he found a way to slither back into her plane of existence. He had made her feel for him once before, so why could he not do it again? 

He cracked his knuckles, fighting the urge to smirk as the sharp sound made Will jump. The scraggly man’s fingers clamped down onto Ophelia’s, as if protecting her from the noise as well. Hannibal’s internal smirk turned to a scowl. His hand should be protecting her, not Will’s. 

Something deep inside of Hannibal, something that he took pride in keeping locked away, began to claw its way to the surface. Hot and furious, it bubbled beneath the stony surface of his skin. Watching Will’s fingers find Ophelia’s, it ripped and tore at his very foundation. His nose twitched. His lips pursed. And the hatred spread.

 


	26. Chapter 26

Hannibal stood beside his car, dressed warmly in a checkered suit and thick jacket, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other as his mind raced. He stared up at Alana Bloom’s house, which was covered in a thin layer of frost and seemed to glow from every window with the light of a fire within. In his hand, he held a small bouquet of flowers. They were blood red carnations; not in season, but quite appropriate in terms of the meaning he intended to convey. 

He had never felt more apprehensive in his entire life. Never before had he found himself in such a position. After Ophelia had been deemed medically sound, she had been whisked away to the cocoon that Alana and Will had created for her. They had all but quarantined her there, coddling her like a child. Hannibal had watched from afar. He had waited patiently for the right moment to present itself. After a few weeks of surveying her from the shadows, Hannibal had decided that today would be the day to strike. 

It pained him more than he quite understood to watch Ophelia function without him. From afar he had watched the makeshift family bond, preparing for Thanksgiving, which was fast approaching. Hannibal’s stone heart crumbled every time he took his post in the woods outside the house, watching as Will and Ophelia tended to the dogs or kindled a fire. Sometimes she cooked with Alana. Nearly every day, he would park his car just behind a snow bank, allowing himself the slightest view of the house. And nearly every day, he grew more restless. Each time Will touched Ophelia’s hand, or brushed a strand of blonde-again hair from her eyes, Hannibal’s dark heart trembled. 

But today was the day to break that cycle. Hannibal was ready to take her back. He was fully prepared to make her remember. Surely after speaking to him, a switch would flip in her mind and she would know him. He was certain of it. 

But still he found himself in quite an uncomfortably vulnerable state. Clutching this bouquet of flowers felt unnatural, as if he intended to make some sort of halfhearted sacrifice with them. As he stiffly approached the front door, wading through snow, he made himself breathe deeply, evenly. He scolded himself. He was Doctor Hannibal Lecter, and Hannibal Lecter feared nothing. 

He knocked twice, clearing his throat in the time between the short raps. For an excruciatingly long moment, there was no answer. He knew that they were home, though; he had seen them all milling about through the kitchen window. 

Then the door opened, and Ophelia stood before him, bathed in a warm light. He was immediately hit with the smells of fall: cider, maple, and crackling flame. But even more distinguishable was the smell of roses. Much to his surprise, she threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around his torso, as if clinging to the trunk of a sturdy tree. He froze, his arms held aloft, not daring to move, for Alana and Will had appeared, their faces contorted into deep scowls. 

Ophelia gasped and jumped away from Hannibal, her face blazing red, “Oh. Oh, I... I’m sorry,” she forced a laugh, tugging at a strand of hair, “I don’t know why I did that. I’m sorry. C-come in.” She stepped away from the door, heat flooding down into her neck and chest as Hannibal stepped into the house, shutting the door behind him and letting the clumps of snow that had collected on the hem of his pants drip to the floor. His skin felt warm where Ophelia had been. It was a welcome feeling.

The three before him looked utterly domestic. Will, his hand on the small of Alana’s back, was dressed in his usual fare of flannel, jeans, and wonky glasses. Alana had ditched her professionalism and opted for a cardigan and a seasonally colorful skirt. And, as always, Ophelia radiated, her small frame hidden beneath an enormously lumpy knit sweater and jeans, with leaves and pumpkins in all fall colors obscuring most of her bruised skin. The stitches on her head had been removed, leaving behind a tiny pink line that stretched from her hairline down to her eyebrow. Hannibal wanted nothing more than to trace that little line with the tip of his finger. 

“Hannibal,” Alana cleared her throat, “What are you doing here?”

He held the flowers out to Ophelia, “A small gesture for our patient.”

Ophelia smiled warmly and took the flowers from him, her fingers brushing his, “Thank you! Carnations. Such a pretty color, too.”

“They fit in nicely with the...” he gestured to the autumnal and Thanksgiving-themed decorations that adorned the room. 

“Totally,” Ophelia nodded, “Wanna help me find a vase for them?” She did not wait for a response, skirting past Alana and Will and disappearing into the kitchen. Hannibal followed, confident that they would not deny her this. 

“You seem to be feeling much better,” Hannibal prompted, watching anxiously as Ophelia stood on the tips of her toes, reaching for a vase in a particularly high cabinet. 

“I’ve been making a list of things I like,” she nodded to the notepad on the kitchen counter. It was filled with words and phrases, some of them underlined many times and some scratched out, “I’m sorry,” Ophelia turned to him, setting the vase down in the sink, “I just can’t place your name. I know it; it’s on the tip of my tongue.” 

“Hannibal,” he forced a smile, “Hannibal Lecter.” He felt something rip in his chest.

“Right, right,” Ophelia furrowed her brows, shaking her head as if scolding herself, “Of course. I feel like I should know that. You looked so familiar back in the hospital, but I just... I don’t know.” She turned away again and filled the vase halfway, carefully arranging the flowers in a neat bunch. Hannibal watched as she flitted about the room, vase in hand, looking for the perfect place for it. 

“So tell me, Ophelia,” Hannibal followed her into the living room, where a fire blazed in a great stone fireplace and three mugs of steaming cider sat abandoned on a small table before it, “What do you like? What do you remember liking?”

“You can look at the list if you want,” Ophelia nodded back toward the kitchen, “I remember a good bit.”

Hannibal started into the kitchen, but Alana and Will blocked his way. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Alana hissed. Will skirted nervously around Hannibal and joined Ophelia across the room, where she sat on her knees, arranging the flowers on the table by the fireplace. 

“I’m simply paying her a visit,” Hannibal’s face remained smooth, though he longed to tear her away from Will. He fought the urge to push Alana to the side and throw Will into the fire. That urge was quite strong. 

“You shouldn’t,” she spat, “you shouldn’t be here. I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, but it’s not going to work. I won’t _let_ it work.”

Hannibal chuckled, “Alana Bloom. You and I see the world in very different ways, but we both want the same thing.”

“What, to butcher innocents? I think I’ll pass.”

Hannibal took a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth, “Rude, Alana. Shockingly rude.”

“I’ve got Ophelia on the radar of every FBI agent in the Baltimore area. I can afford to be rude,” she glared up at him, eerily knowing. Hannibal was sure that Will had told her everything that he knew, but suddenly it seemed as if Alana had more insight than he originally expected. 

Hannibal said nothing, but let a small smile pull at the corners of his lips. Alana proved to be a bloodhound, as she always had been. But he knew that he had the upper hand, no matter how powerful Will and Alana thought that they had grown. Ophelia was an independent mind, a mind full of memories that only he could unlock. 

Ophelia shot to her feet, startling all of them, “Opera! I like opera! I think I like opera,” she looked down at Will, who still sat on the floor by the table, “Do I like the opera? Have I even _been_ to the opera?”

Hannibal visibly swelled with pride. He let a full grin creep across his face as Alana turned a sickly shade of white.

“Uh,” Will looked from Alana, to Hannibal, and then up at Ophelia, “Sure you do.”

Without another word, Ophelia turned and scurried past Hannibal and Alana, into the kitchen to retrieve her notepad. She leaned against the counter, scribbling furiously. Hannibal took a few steps toward her and Alana matched his every movement. He ignored the pit bull of a woman, peering cautiously over Ophelia’s shoulder at the notepad. The page was full of hastily scrawled words and small doodles of things that perhaps Ophelia could not put words to. It was not as neat and orderly as the page she had showed him just moments ago; it was as if the further she delved into her mind, the more untidy and unclear it became. 

“Hannibal,” Alana hissed, just softly enough so that Ophelia could not hear, “I may have made a mistake, forcing her onto you before, but I can guarantee that I won’t make it again,” she looked up at him and pursed her lips then, as if reciting words from a teleprompter, “The scales have fallen from my eyes. I can _see_.”

He simply continued to watch as Ophelia scribbled on the notepad. He did not feel threatened by her reiteration of Will’s dramatics in the slightest. The word and influence of an unhinged man and his loyal devotee would be no match for his in any situation. His somewhat reunion with Ophelia had fueled the fire, fed the beast. He was sure he could succeed. 

The only problems that he faced were two: the presence of the FBI, ever looming among them, though there were only the four of them in the room, and the simple fact that Ophelia remembered nothing of him. Evidently he existed somewhere in the locked-away recesses of her mind, but for the time being he would simply have to assume that she knew nothing of the events that had transpired between them. It wounded him, as it would anyone. But Hannibal was not used to this feeling, that by caring so deeply for her he had something to lose. Never before had his empathy for humans turned into such dire attachment. In that moment, more than anything, he felt akin to a great predator- beast looming over a fragile bird so that the other predators that circled her could not pounce without meeting his force first. 

If only she knew how fiercely he intended to do so. 

The other half of the coin lay in the hands of Jack Crawford. If Alana’s threats were true, and Ophelia remained under the protection of the FBI, Hannibal would have to tread much more lightly than he would like. 

Suddenly, he needed desperately to consult Bedelia. He hated to leave Ophelia even for a moment, but he also knew that nothing could be accomplished if he did not know how to proceed. 

“I suppose I should be leaving,” Hannibal cleared his throat. There was a collective sigh of relief from Alana and Will, who had appeared again in the doorway. 

“Oh,” Ophelia’s voice was a borderline whine as she turned away from her notepad to face him, “Do you have to? You just got here.” There was a smudge of black ink on the bridge of her nose. 

“I left a rather hefty stack of paperwork unattended,” Hannibal felt another rip when her expression dissolved into a pitiful pout. It looked as if her mind was racing, warring with itself over something that Hannibal would surely never know. 

“Alright,” her face began to redden, “Well, thanks for stopping by. And for the flowers.”

“It was my pleasure,” Hannibal knew not what else to say. She suddenly looked quite tired, and painfully fragile. The smell of roses intensified for the smallest of moments. 

“I’ll, uhm,” Ophelia rubbed the back of her neck, staring at the floor, “I’ll walk you out, I guess.” She did not see Alana and Will exchange furtive glances. Without waiting for a response from Hannibal, she shuffled out of the kitchen and to the front door, where she fumbled with the doorknob for a moment. She pushed the door open, bracing against the the blast of cold air and gestured uncomfortably to Hannibal. He mock-bowed and stepped out into the frigid evening while Ophelia stared hard at the floor. She shut the door behind him and followed him toward his car, leaving Will and Alana to watch them from the window. Her eyes did not leave the snow-blanketed ground until she ran into Hannibal’s back.

“Are you alright?” Hannibal peered down at her, “You seem to be elsewhere. Not that your absence isn’t warranted; you have been through quite an ordeal.” 

Ophelia shook her head, finally looking up at him, “Just thinking. Thinking is hard lately.” She forced herself to smile. Suddenly it was a very difficult thing to do. It was as if an enormous hole had been punched in her chest, yet she did not know where it had come from. 

“Not to worry,” Hannibal fought the urge to put a hand on her small shoulder, “You’ll find your way back soon enough.”

She paused for a moment, then took a deep breath as if she were preparing to fling herself off a cliff, “Were we... friends? I don’t really remember you, and I’m sorry, but I think we might have been friends.”

“Yes,” Hannibal choked, “We were friends.” He could feel ripping and tearing in his chest. It took all of his will to remain motionless, expressionless; it would scare her to see anything other than normalcy. 

Ophelia’s face, on the other hand, was reddening more and more every moment. She rubbed the back of her neck with one hand and fumbled at the sleeve of her sweater with the other. She did not speak, and Hannibal appreciated the silence. It gave him hope that she was thinking, no matter how difficult it was for her. But it still was unimaginably painful to see her struggle so. He wanted nothing more than to tell her everything, to confess everything. But he knew he could not, for fear of wrecking her. 

Hannibal’s resolve cracked. He reached a steady hand out and, as Alana and Will burst through the front door, noncommittally patted her shoulder. It was all he could safely do, and he knew that. But at least feeling her, alive and healthy, was enough. And it would have to be enough, for Alana and Will appeared beside her then to shelter her. Will put a firm arm around her shoulder; Hannibal was almost proud of him for being so firm. Alana stared him down with a heat that could melt any other man. 

“Goodbye, then,” Hannibal nodded curtly to Ophelia. She smiled sadly as he ducked into his car and sped off without so much as another glance back at her. 

It pained her to be so in the dark. Ophelia knew that something was missing, something was wrong, and something was hanging in the air amongst all of them. It was much more tangible when Hannibal was present, but it still hung there for quite some time after he left. She allowed herself to be led back into the house. The trio went about the rest of their evening in relative silence, for Hannibal’s presence was still very much alive amongst them. Ophelia spent the rest of the evening and much of the night hunched over her notepad. 

In small, neat letters she wrote “Hannibal Lecter”.

 


	27. Chapter 27

The last time Bedelia du Maurier had gotten so involved in Hannibal’s personal life, the human on the other end had been landed in a mental institution. And yet she couldn’t seem to stay away from the idea of helping him, and in turn helping Ophelia. Before the accident, she had been wary of any relationship between Hannibal and the girl, but had not been able to refuse him. She never could. 

As the plot continued to thicken, so did Bedelia’s reluctant interest in the relationship between Ophelia and her dark comrade. The news of Ophelia’s memory-loss affliction had given her hope, and in turn had given Hannibal renewed vigor with which to go about his daily pursuits. She had seen fire kindled in him before, but never like this. Nearly every day since, she had found herself sitting with him discussing what his next actions should be.

“It’s a clean slate, Hannibal, no matter how you look at it,” Bedelia tossed a stray blonde wave over her shoulder and crossed her legs, “or no matter how you choose to proceed. But nevertheless, you must remain cautious.”

“And I know that,” Hannibal resisted the urge to rise from his seat across from her and pace to and from the window. As much as he valued Bedelia’s advice, a part of him felt that time was wasted sitting in her dim home theorizing. 

“Of course, but you must think before you act. Perhaps visiting her was too risky.”

“I’m afraid I have to disagree. Though Will and Alana were displeased, Ophelia seemed responsive to my presence.”

“Surely,” Bedelia nodded, rolling her shoulders, “Her memory is not erased entirely. It is very possible for her to gain it back. But, as you know, it must be done gently.”

“Simply sitting her down and recounting to her the events of the past months would be detrimental to her mental health, yes?”

“It is likely. The possibility of overloading her mental capacity is always looming over our heads. She must remember on her own, and she must ease into it.” 

“A clean slate.”

“Two possible clean slates. One possibility would be starting over entirely. Wooing, so to speak. She felt romantic intention for you before, and she can do it again if you play your hand correctly. The other would be a bit more difficult.”

“And that would entail...?”

“If she’s going to remember the good times, she’s going to remember the bad times. She’s going to remember your confessions. The killings.”

“Before the accident, she was coming back to me. She was returning my affection, despite her knowledge of me.”

“You don’t know that for sure. When we chatted she seemed to be coming around, but Ophelia is a complex human being. She has had a lot happen to her, and to her mind. It’s quite possible that she could have been playing on your emotion.”

“So what are you suggesting?” Hannibal refused to believe that Ophelia had been pretending, but he did not protest. He would let Bedelia’s doubt exist, but it would not affect him. 

“An alternative clean slate would be the absolute truth. Much of her fear came from the unknown. It was fight or flight magnified beyond the point of control. If she is presented with the truth, both sides of _your_ truth, then it is very possible that she will see reason.”

“And what is my truth?”

Bedelia paused. There were many facets in the truth of Hannibal Lecter, “The obvious, darker truth, first of all. I believe we have discussed it enough to understand. Your other truth, however, is your empathy. More than empathy, truly.”

“Love,” the word stung Hannibal’s tongue. He was still not quite comfortable with tossing around this new _thing_ so lightly. But the bite of the word felt strangely liberating. 

“That,” Bedelia nodded. She was still not entirely convinced that love was what Hannibal was wholeheartedly feeling. Surely it was more of a morbid fascination that _appeared_ to be love and _felt_ like love, but from what she knew of Hannibal, love did not seem like something that could even be part of the equation. 

“Absolute truth, then,” Hannibal sighed, clasping his hands in his lap as if that would keep him from rising and fidgeting, “Once she has regained her memory, or the vast majority of it, absolute truth is what I must give her.”

“That’s how I see it, yes. It would be smart of you to begin distancing her from Will Graham as soon as possible. He and Alana will do everything in their power to see to it that she doesn’t meet the same fate as Will. Or Abigail Hobbs for that matter.”

Hannibal frowned, “Now, you know good and well that Ophelia and Will are two completely dissimilar situations.”

“Not entirely,” Bedelia cocked her head to the side, aware that she had entered dangerous waters, “Both, when under your influence, were entirely vulnerable. Putty in your masterful hands, if you will. If you play your hand wisely, this time will turn out differently.”

“Will was an entirely different set of cards,” Hannibal pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing, “I did what had to be done. Ophelia on the other hand-”

“Is a much more dangerous relationship for you to have,” Bedelia interjected. She knew that Hannibal was locked onto Ophelia like a hunter onto its prey, but she also knew that in order to save Ophelia from a grisly fate, she would have to keep Hannibal firmly reigned in. As much as she could, anyway.

“What, exactly, are you proposing?” Hannibal longed to escape from the room. It was growing dark and heavy, as if the air was thickening with every syllable that Bedelia uttered. He wished to return to Ophelia, if only to watch her pour over her notepad. 

“Rebuild the relationship,” Bedelia stood, making for the bottle of wine that sat unopened on the kitchen counter, “for now. Make it as strong and as real as possible. That way, even if she fails to regain her memory, you will still be close to her. And if she does recall everything, you will be that much better for it.”

Hannibal stood, “A _date_ , then. That shouldn’t be challenging.”

Bedelia slammed her glass down on the counter, a bit harder than she had intended, and sloshed a small wave of crimson wine over the edge, “Hannibal.”

He turned back to her, for he had started toward the door, forgetting formality. 

“Just,” Bedelia inhaled deeply, “wait a while to cook for her. And wait even longer to share your... recipes with her as well. At least not until she’s remembered everything.”

A grin spread across Hannibal’s lips, and his eyes narrowed into slits. He had been ready to share his ultimate secret with Ophelia before, and he was fully prepared to do it again. For now, he would be patient. For now, he would be human. 

 


	28. Chapter 28

Ophelia’s notepad flew across the room, knocking the digital clock on the bedside table from its place and slamming into the wall. She cursed at the top of her lungs, not caring who heard. Ripping her shirt over her head, she stalked over to the full-length mirror on the opposite side of the room and glared down at her torso. Small circular scars dotted her torso, clustering around one gruesomely obvious scar that ran down the center of her stomach. Each morning she would arise only to stand before the mirror and wrack her brain for the origin of these ugly scars. It was an infuriating undertaking. 

“Everything okay up there?” Alana called to her from the bottom of the stairs. She had turned her attic into a makeshift loft for Ophelia; her only other bedroom was occupied by Will and his caravan of dogs. Ophelia had thought of suggesting they share a room, but she decided against it. 

“Fine!” Ophelia called back, her voice much snappier and harsh than she had intended. 

She was met with silence. Ophelia could not say she blamed Will and Alana for keeping their distance; her condition had thrown her into a dark mood, and it had only worsened since Hannibal’s visit days before. Something about his presence had made her desperate to regain whatever memories she had left behind in the crash. Will and Alana begged to differ, however. Will seemed to feel quite passionately about it; he nearly had to leave the room every time Ophelia brought up the past. Alana was much better at handling the topic. 

Ophelia knew, thanks to Alana, that her father was dead. He had died in the crash. She had finished her dance training in school, and had been planning on moving to New York City to pursue her lifelong dream of dancing professionally. That much was not surprising, and Ophelia had been pleased when Alana filled in this bit of information. But that was where Alana’s wealth of information had run out. She did not, or could not, answer any questions about anything but the fate of Ophelia’s father which, oddly enough, did not make her feel much of anything. All Ophelia truly remembered of her father was a strong dislike for him. 

So Ophelia had decided to strike out on her own, venturing into the dark abyss of her memory. Her notepad full of ideas was as far as she had gotten, though, and it was beginning to become quite depressing. She lashed out, full of frustration, whenever she hit a wall. And she seemed to be hitting walls quite often. 

She yanked her shirt back over her head, sending little pieces of hair sticking out in every direction atop her head. With a huff, she crossed the room and grabbed her notepad, slamming it shut. Leaving the lights on behind her, Ophelia shrugged on her favorite sweater and shut the door.

“I’m going out,” Ophelia called to Will as she descended the stairs. He sat on the living room floor brushing a mat out of Winston’s creamy coat. For a moment, Ophelia paused, watching him. Will was so entirely, lovingly, focused on the dog that he did not notice her standing there. Ophelia’s heart was warmed and her demeanor was softened; there was something about Will Graham that she could not place, something that made her feel a fierce warmth within her whenever she looked at him. He was just a man, just a teacher. As far as she knew, she had only known him for the time that she had lived with Alana. But something deep within her said that Will Graham was a good man. Will Graham was a man that deserved the world. Not knowing him when she felt as if she should was one of the most painful things that Ophelia had experienced during her time in Baltimore. 

He finally looked up from Winston to gaze up at Ophelia, his eyes wary and his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, “Are you going somewhere?”

“Out,” Ophelia repeated, much more softly now, “Just need some air.”

“Do you,” Will stumbled to his feet, adjusting his glasses and patting Winston on the head, “have a jacket? Need some company?” His eyes grew sad as he took in Ophelia’s face, from the dark circles under her eyes to the chapped skin of her lips. Though her body was recovering from their stint in England, her mind was deteriorating. He had come to care for her so, he only wished he could stop it. 

Ophelia shook her head, “I won’t be gone long. Probably just grab some coffee and come right back. It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.” She forced a single, barking laugh. Her face reddened. 

“Taking the bus, then?” Will shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking from one foot to the other. He longed to pull her into an embrace, to comfort her. But he did not know how. 

Ophelia nodded. 

“Okay,” Will stayed beside Winston, who stared up at his human companion, wagging his tail, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. 

Ophelia hesitated for just a moment before hurrying from the house. Will stared after her, his jaw clenched and his hand patting absentmindedly at the top of Winston’s head. 

The fall air was full of bite that afternoon, more so than in previous days. Almost all the leaves had abandoned their branches, and nearly all of the wildlife one would expect to see in such a rural area were absent. It was a short walk down a deserted road to the bus stop, which was made up of a single rusty sign and two leaf-covered benches. Ophelia sat down on one, clutching her bag and her notepad to her chest, as if they were the glue keeping her from falling to pieces on the sidewalk. 

The bus arrived just as Ophelia’s fingers were beginning to go numb. She shelled out a handful of change to the disgruntled driver, then waddled down the aisle to the far end of the bus, finally settling down at a window seat at the very back. The only other person on the bus appeared to be asleep, his great, bulking frame leaning against the window on his side of the aisle. 

Ophelia couldn’t help but study the man as the bus started into town. He was covered almost entirely in tattoos of every shape and size. His bald head reflected the grey autumn light that streamed through the windows, though his enormous shoulders almost entirely blocked it out. A back brace and a roll of medical bandages sat on the seat next to him. Ophelia wondered what their purpose was.

He looked like the type of man that led an interesting life. She wondered what his name was, what his job was. Did he have pets? Friends? And why was he on this bus? 

The only sound that accompanied them on the short ride back into town was the sound of some foreign language blaring over the radio at the front of the bus. The driver seemed enraptured. Ophelia wondered how the loud broadcast had not awoken the tattooed man. When the bus pulled up to the stop at the center of town, Ophelia stood, her eyes on the man. He still had not stirred. She thought it wise to wake him, just in case he had missed his stop. 

“Sir?” Ophelia’s hand seemed minuscule on his enormous shoulder. 

He sat up languidly, as if still asleep, “Well hello there, darlin’. What can I do for ya’ today?”

“Um,” Ophelia tugged a the strap of her purse, “nothing, nothing. You were just... asleep. I thought I should wake you. Don’t want to miss your stop, right?” The way his eyes scanned her face made her insides squirm. He leaned toward her ever so slightly, his fingers drumming together on his lap. 

“What’s your name?” his eyes narrowed, but his mouth pulled into a toothy grin. His left incisor was golden. 

“Ophelia,” she muttered, “But, um, I have to get off now. I just... wanted to help.” She felt her skin crawling. 

“Nice to meet you, Ophelia,” the man continued to grin at her as she scurried from the bus, still clutching her notepad and purse as tightly as she could. 

Out in the crisp air, after the bus had departed, Ophelia felt much better. Though she did not know the area, she was quite keen to simply stroll along until she found a place to stop and think. 

She started down the sidewalk with no particular direction, simply listening to the rhythm of her shoes slapping against the concrete. She smiled at people she passed, wondering if she had ever known them or if she would like to. The wind whipped her hair around her face and ruffled the pages of her notepad, singing around corners and into the opening and closing doors of shops. She followed the wind, letting it push her along. 

Soon, though, she decided she was far too chilly to carry on for much longer, so she ducked out of the gale and into a small coffee shop, whose windows were covered with festive decorations.

“Ophelia!” a voice rang out the moment the door closed behind her. A small, dark-skinned woman flew toward her, arms outstretched, “Where have you been? Haven’t seen you around in ages!”

“I, uh,” Ophelia looked down at the woman, whose head only came to her shoulder. 

“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” the woman took Ophelia by the hand and led her to a table by the window, “What does matter is that my favorite customer is back where she’s supposed to be. The usual? Any snacks? Where’s your friend?”

“S-sure,” Ophelia nodded, perching uncomfortably on the edge of her chair, “My friend?”

“Mister tall, dark, and handsome,” the woman put her hands on her hips, quite animated for her small size, “That man you’re always here with. Or you _were_ before you disappeared on me....”

Ophelia knew not what to say, “I- I really don’t know, to be honest.”

The woman shrugged, “Still, I’m just happy you’re back.” She bustled away, weaving between tables. 

The cafe itself was quite a quirky little place; Ophelia was proud of herself for apparently having picking it out in the past. All of the tables and chairs were mismatched, as if the owner had simply gathered whatever furniture they could find. Some tables were round, some were square. Some were wood, and some were made of colorful glass. The chairs were equally as diverse, ranging from small rocking chairs to curved love seats. Ophelia sat at a small round table made of wrought iron in a plush chair covered in small appliqué flowers. 

Ophelia gazed out the window, watching the bustling activity pass by. A child swung between her mother and father, who both carried cups of steaming cider in their free hands. A few men in suits hurried by, and then a small pod of bicyclists. 

Across the street, two silhouettes moved behind a closed curtain. One was tall, statuesque. It stood beside what looked to be a large armchair. The other more plump figure paced back and forth in front of the window; his outline was much more defined. Once, he peered through the curtains, his eyes darting up and down the street, as if he were hiding from someone. His eyes met Ophelia’s for a moment, then he disappeared behind the curtain again. 

Ophelia couldn’t help but snort to herself at the quirkiness of the small pig-like man. She looked down at her notepad, wondering if she should write about the funny sight. As she started to describe the man next to a small doodle of Winston, a steaming cup of coffee appeared before her. 

“Thanks,” Ophelia smiled up at the woman who, in turn, beamed down at her. 

“So you missed a lot when you fell off the planet, miss Ophelia,” the woman put her hands on her hips, mock scolding, “I’m co-manager now. You’re looking at a _boss_.” 

She did not know why, but her heart swelled and her face snapped into a grin, “That’s fantastic!”

“I know! Charles said that-”

“Maria!” a male voice, who Ophelia assumed could only be Charles, boomed over the clinking of mugs and silverware, “Got things to do back here.” Ophelia quickly jotted _Maria_ down onto her notepad. 

“Sorry,” she dipped into a nervous curtsy, “See you, Ophelia. But, oh, look, there’s your friend. He’ll just have to keep you occupied while I co-manage.” She hurried off, and Ophelia’s head snapped to where Maria had pointed. 

Hannibal stood on the curb with the small piggy-man, patting him gingerly on the shoulder, as if his suit would be soiled with too much contact. A smile played at the corners of Ophelia’s mouth as she watched him, watched his thought process fluctuate from disgust to relief as the man finally slid into his clunker car and sped away. Hannibal rolled his eyes and straightened his jacket as he watched the car disappear around a curve. His breath puffed out before him. Ophelia took a deep swig of the creamy caramel coffee drink as Hannibal muttered something to himself. He seemed so close; Ophelia was content to simply watch him. 

But instead of remaining veiled behind the Thanksgiving decorations, safely hidden away with her coffee, Ophelia rapped on the window with her knuckles, pressing her face agains the window. It was barely audible, Ophelia was sure, but Hannibal heard it, his back straightening immediately and his head snapping up. She tapped on the window again, and this time he saw her. She smiled and waved to him, holding her coffee up to the window as an invitation. His face remained still for a moment, his eyes trained on her face as if deciding whether or not she was real. But then he broke into a brisk walk, crossing the street without so much as a glance in either direction for oncoming traffic. He was a picture of deep concentration as he burst through the door of the cafe, only to stop dead and stare at Ophelia, who shot to her feet, knocking her chair back a few inches.

“Hi,” Ophelia cleared her throat, for it was suddenly clenching and her stomach was filling with riling butterflies, as cliche as it was. 

“Ophelia,” he clenched and unclenched his fingers, still standing in the doorway. His eyes darted from her face, to the notepad, and then to the cup of coffee that she still held tightly in one hand, as if it were glued between her fingers. 

“Do you wanna,” Ophelia motioned to the chair opposite hers at the table, her coffee sloshing, “sit down? Get coffee?” She did not know why her tongue felt so heavy in her mouth. 

“I would like that,” Hannibal nodded stiffly. He crossed the room stiffly, but did not sit. Instead, he stood a foot away from Ophelia and waited for her to move. 

Awkwardly, and with seemingly great difficulty, they both sat, never breaking eye contact. Within moments, Maria appeared with a steaming mug and set it before Hannibal, who dismissed her with a charming nod. Ophelia took this brief reprieve to exhale. 

“How are you?” he asked, turning back to Ophelia and staring her down again. 

Ophelia took a deep gulp of her coffee, ignoring the painful burning it caused in her throat, “Good, good. It’s nice to be out of the house.”

“I’m sure it is,” Hannibal mirrored her actions, taking an equally deep and equally painful sip of coffee, “Have you made any progress?” He nodded to the notepad. 

Ophelia shifted in her seat, “Maria. That lady,” she pointed to the small woman, who continued to bustle about, “She’s on the list.”

“Nothing else?” Hannibal’s voice was anxious. He made a mental note to reign himself in. _Patience. Slow and steady._

“Not really,” Ophelia sighed, “It’s been a hard couple of days.”

“How so?” Hannibal wanted nothing more than to be inside her head. He wished for her to spill everything she was feeling to him. He wished she felt like she could.

“I just do what Alana and Will tell me to do over and over again, but... I wake up and there’s nothing. I’m empty. Like there’s a big hole in my chest, and I don’t know what’s supposed to fill it,” Ophelia took another scalding sip of coffee, “I just feel... fucked up, ya’ know? Like, what’s going on in my head? I don’t even know.” Normally she would feel embarrassed for being so frank with someone she didn’t know. But she _did_ know him. The only thing she was sure of was that Hannibal was someone that she could trust. She couldn’t possibly justify that feeling to anyone, but she was sure of it. Out of the window she stared, her words hanging in the air between them. 

Hannibal felt as if he could very well explode. He looked into her honest eyes and exhaled, letting out all the air that had been pent up in his chest while she had spilled her guts. As she continued to watch the activity out on the street, Hannibal looked down at her small hands. They were cupped tightly around the mug, surely burning her palms. He longed to take them in his. But he knew he could not. 

“I’m sorry,” Ophelia suddenly stood, leaving her mug on the table, “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just been a long day. I should-”

“Have dinner with me,” Hannibal blurted, standing as well. Such domestic, romantic gestures were new to him. One would think such a put-together man as Hannibal would be quite comfortable and adept at such things. But he felt tongue-tied for the first time in his life. 

“What?” Ophelia stared blankly up at him. Evidently, the words had come out in a jumble. 

Hannibal took a deep breath, “I hear there is a spectacular Italian restaurant downtown. I would... love for you to join me. Tomorrow night, perhaps?” He hated eating anywhere other than his own kitchen. But, following Bedelia’s guidance, he had carefully chosen an establishment that served only the finest organically raised foods. A step down from Hannibal’s usual fare, but for Ophelia he would make do. 

“Like... like a date?” Ophelia’s face flushed. 

“Yes,” Hannibal said curtly. That was as good as it was going to get, he figured. 

Ophelia fidgeted, fiddling with her fingernails, “Sure,” a smile spread across her face involuntarily, “Tomorrow.”

“Fantastic,” Hannibal’s chest felt as if it might burst, “Tomorrow. I’ll... pick you up.” He felt so bourgeoisie, asking a girl on a date. At his age and with his status, as well. But the pink flush of her face made him forget himself. 

“Tomorrow,” Ophelia repeated, gathering all of her things, “I’ll see you then.” She stacked a few bills on the table by her coffee and skirted around Hannibal, who watched her go. Once again, he longed to touch her. But instead he simply watched as Ophelia made for the bus stop, ever so often throwing a glance over her shoulder back at the cafe. It gave Hannibal pride to know that the glances were meant for him. 

 


	29. Chapter 29

“I made her see. I _truly_ made her see. She saw him kill. How can she not remember that? How can she not _feel_ it? How can she not feel the vicious cycle that she’s in? That we’re _all_ in?” Will sat on the end of Alana’s bed, his head in his hands. She leaned against her armoire, her mind in a ping-pong match with itself. The only sound in the room for quite some time was Will’s labored breathing. 

Ophelia had come home in a whirlwind of spirit, humming to herself and prancing about the house with an unnatural smile plastered on her face. While Will and Alana had not wanted to test this sudden ray of sunshine that had seemed to possess her, they were still suspicious. And when they had learned the reason for her turnaround, they had both nearly blown a fuse. They felt quite like parents nursing an obstinate child. Only the stakes were far higher. 

“I could go for a good scream right now,” Will hissed, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Or a beer,” Alana shook her head, her brows furrowed with frustration. She crossed her arms over her chest, “Or a few.”

“That, too.”

“What do we do?” for the first time in a while, Alana had no clue as to which direction they should turn. She was the only living human being that knew explicitly of Will’s condition, and of his false persecution. And her word paled against the evidence that had been stacked against him. Therefore, she could not turn to Jack. She could not turn to Beverly, her dear friend. They had believed progress had been made with Ophelia, but their hopes of Will escaping with her forever had been dashed all too quickly. Now, Alana and Will were adrift in a dangerous sea, with Ophelia dangling behind them, entirely unawares. 

“She has to stay away from him,” Will stood, striding to the doorway to watch Ophelia, who sat in the living room, trying desperately to tie a bow onto Winston’s collar, to no avail. 

“How?” Alana joined him, “In her mind, Hannibal is harmless. A friend, even. We can’t just lock her up and throw away the key. Holding her against her will is not an option, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Will’s head bowed, his hair falling lazily in his face. He leaned against the doorframe, his mind racing. Could they make her remember? And if they did, how would she react to Hannibal? To _them_? 

“If she doesn’t remember all the horrible things he’s done,” Will shook his head, “all the secrets I told her in confidence, then we have to convince her to stay away from Hannibal. I can’t imagine him going much longer without needing to pull at her strings. Hannibal may think that he has the upper hand on us, but his nature will be his downfall if anything. Dining with the devil.” He spit the doctor’s name as if it had bitten his tongue. 

“She’s smart. Maybe... maybe if we let her have one night with him, she’ll see. She’ll see that he’s no one to be trifled with. Maybe something will come back to her. And I doubt Hannibal could be so domestic for any period of time. This whole situation is a much lower stoop than I ever suspected he would reach. He’ll get fed up with it and do something drastic, and we’ll be there to pull her away from the wreckage if need be.” Alana knew that she may have to pull Will from the wreckage as well. The glue that held him together was slowly beginning to disappear. She had seen a number of people thoroughly broken by the world, but never like Will. He was in danger of falling apart again. And yet, he only lost sleep over Ophelia nowadays. It was evident that he would fall to pieces to save her.

“I just hope we won’t need to.”

 

 

Ophelia sat amongst the dogs, her toes tapping on the carpet and her fingers whirring in her lap. Winston nudged her leg with his nose and she scratched him behind the ears, thankful for the temporary distraction. 

She had been on plenty of dates in her time. Everything from bar hops to five star dinners, Ophelia had conquered it all with one college boy or another. But never before had she endured such trials and such gripping nerves in order to prepare for one. From the moment she had awoken, her stomach had been set aflutter, and her fingers had not stopped shaking. 

Alana had been called in by Jack Crawford quite early, so Ophelia had been left to consult Will, who had been wholly useless in the selection of clothes. Every once in a while, she would run downstairs to parade herself back and forth in front of Will, who was busy in his own world of dogs and fishing lures. Each time, he nodded, gave her a noncommittal, somewhat uncomfortable “yeah” or a nod, and had retreated back into his own mind. It was times like these that Ophelia longed for her sorority sisters. 

She didn’t think of them much; they had never truly been sisterly toward her. Ophelia had never been one for the sorority lifestyle anyhow. She had always been content to spend nights in. Occasionally, she had indulged her sisters, and they had tinkered on her face and hair like a doll, spending the majority of a day sitting in the room she shared with two other girls. Oddly, nowadays, acting like a normal girl felt false, as if she were putting on a show.

But Ophelia had done her sisters justice that day, so she thought. After forcing Will to watch her parade around the living room, she had settled for what she wore now. Now she sat awaiting Hannibal’s arrival, with the dogs milling about her, and Will pacing at the window. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to just... stay in?” he tried his best to sound casual, “It’s supposed to snow tonight. Makes me nervous.”

Ophelia shook her head, “I’ll be back before bedtime. I promise.” She smiled at Will’s back; he had stopped directly in front of the window and now stared out into the darkness. She appreciated his concern. She did not quite understand its ferocity, but it was touching. It was obvious that Will had endured more than she could ever understand. Her heart burst for him. 

“Hannibal,” Will turned to her, “is... strange. Like an owl. He observes. He sees things that it takes ages for others to even sense. He knows the inner workings of a mind like the owl knows its prey. Be careful.”

Ophelia stood, disturbing the dogs that had begun to settle around her lap, “You’re scaring me!” She forced a laugh as she approached him, her eyes scanning up and down his tense, barely quivering figure, expecting him to dart away from her. But as she drew closer, he reached out and pulled her close, his hands on her shoulders and his eyes boring into hers. 

“I feel protective of you.” The simple statement was harsh on his tongue, as if it was something he had recited over and over, but still could not assign meaning to. Each syllable was a harsh cymbal through his tight lips. 

“Am I one of your strays?” Ophelia could feel the sheer energy radiating from Will’s body. Heat. Winston nudged the back of her leg. She had meant her words as a joke, but they had sounded much less in jest, and much more sincere. 

“We’re both strays, Ophelia,” his fingers squeezed her shoulders and her breath hitched in her throat. A great rumbling began deep in her chest, as if something had begun pounding against her ribs. It was barely noticeable, but Ophelia could sense it. Something was tearing. 

But the doorbell rang then, and Will’s hands shot to his sides, deep, gasping breaths shaking his chest. It startled Ophelia for a moment; why was Hannibal’s presence such a terrible, frightening thing?

Ophelia, never taking her eyes from Will’s clenched face, retreated into the hall. She opened the door, only then looking away. Hannibal stood in the doorway, looking immaculately tailored in his usual fare: a suit and tie. His eyebrows raised ever so slightly as his eyes scanned her from head to toe. From her softly curled hair, to the pink and white dress in which her small frame was draped, and down to her simple black shoes, his eyes seemed to drink her in with an insatiable hunger, but also with a giddy sort of glint. It made Ophelia’s stomach flutter. 

He looked past her then, and his eyes fell on Will, who had appeared behind her. A smirk spread across his lips, but only for the slightest moment. Only Will caught it. 

“You look lovely,” Hannibal looked down to Ophelia again, “I would stay and chat,” his eyes darted upward again, “But I’m afraid we haven’t the time for casual conversation at the moment. Our reservation awaits us.”

“Of course,” Ophelia tugged at the strap of her purse, “Bye, Will. See you.” She shot him a warm smile, then followed Hannibal out into the cold, not noticing the hatred that smoldered in Will’s expression as the door swung closed behind them. 

Hannibal placed a hand on the small of Ophelia’s back guiding her around patches of ice that had begun to form in the driveway. She shivered, thankful that Hannibal had left his car running. It was wonderfully warm inside, and smelled crisp and clean, much like fresh linen. 

Ophelia looked down at her knobby knees as they sped off down the dimply lit road. A few scars peeked out from beneath the hem of her skirt. She hastened to cover them, their small, ruddy appearance a glaring reminder of what she did not know. 

Small talk, underscored by classic Bach, was what filled the long drive to the other side of town. Hannibal prompted Ophelia with questions pertaining to trivial things, such as Will’s dogs, animals of her own, and her hobbies before the accident. She told him all that she could remember, completely unaware of the subtle smile that settled on his face each time she spoke. He often skirted around her questions, finding every way he could to turn it back around on her. Ophelia did not mind much. She was just thankful for something to pass the time. 

When they arrived at the restaurant, Hannibal immediately appeared outside her door, helping her out of the car and leading her inside as if she could fall and break at any moment. He addressed the men in tuxedoes at the front of the establishment in Italian, and Ophelia could not help but raise her eyebrows at him. A smug look on his face as they went, a slick man led them to a private space at the back of the dark dining room. It was lit with string lights on the ceiling, strung up to resemble a courtyard at night. There was a single table in the room, lit with a single flickering candle. Soft violin music floated in through the open door. 

“Tell me,” Hannibal removed his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair, “What is life like under the strict rule of Alana Bloom and Will Graham?”

For a moment Ophelia did not respond; all she had the capacity to focus on for a short time was the rippling muscles of Hannibal’s chest, arms, and shoulders. They seemed much more prominent in the shadow-cast light of the candles. She had to force herself to look away. 

She answered, smirking, “Not as horrible as you might think.” Hannibal slid her chair closer to the table once she sat, then slid into the chair before her. His sharply angular face was partially cast in shadow, the flickering flame sharpening his cheekbones and defining his jaw. Suddenly Ophelia felt quite warm. 

A waitress appeared, and Hannibal spoke to her in refined Italian as well. The woman seemed charmed, her cheeks aflame and a ringlet ever twirling around her finger. Ophelia watched her closely, feeling a twinge of territorial jealousy deep in her stomach. 

“Italiano?” Ophelia straightened her back and rolled her shoulders as the waitress left with their orders. Hannibal had ordered entirely in Italian, and his request had not been a simple one. The waitress had seemed happy to comply with his complex request, but had seemed positively bored when Ophelia had struggled through the pronunciation of a certain type of ravioli. 

“When your passion for the culinary arts is as... far-reaching as mine, you tend to learn the language of the medium,” Hannibal leaned forward, his eyes languidly searching Ophelia’s face as he spoke, “And I intend to integrate a bit of Italian into my everyday cookbook. After all, I am quite selective about what I put in my body.”

“Brava, then,” Ophelia gestured to him with her glass, then took a dainty sip, “How did you get so into food? Psychiatry and fine dining... doesn’t really mesh. Not that I’m complaining.”

Hannibal laughed, “One must remain well-rounded. My mind is fed when I am with my patients, and the rest of me is satiated in the kitchen.”

“Your patients,” Ophelia was intrigued, “are an intellectual challenge, then? Or do you deal with a lot of daddy issues?”

He could not help but laugh again, “Clever, but true. While I do find the inner machinations of the human mind to be fascinating, it can be a bit dull. Once...” he hesitated for a moment, but quickly cleared his throat and continued, “once a man recounted the entire plot of _The Shining_ and tried to pass it off as personal experience.”

Ophelia guffawed into her drink, “No way! I love that movie and all, but why would anyone want to even pretend to live it out? Have you seen it?”

Hannibal shook his head, “I’ve been meaning to for quite some time.”

“It’s really psychological,” Ophelia grinned, “I’d like to hear your take on it sometime.”

“I suppose you’ll have to be there to watch me analyze it. From what my patient told me, it’s a rather twisted affair.”

She nodded, grinning, “Twisted is an understatement.”

“But aren’t the best stories always a little bit twisted? There’s no fun in anything less. It enriches everything.”

“Like... like Greek mythology. It wouldn’t be nearly as studied if Hades had just let Persephone _go_. Or if someone _didn’t_ turn into an animal every few days.”

Hannibal laughed, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of his fragrant wine, “A mythology fan, are you? Greek?” He already knew the answer. He knew everything there was to know about Ophelia. There was nothing more to this than his desire to hear her voice, to watch her lips move as she talked, to feel the warmth of her skin near him again. He relished the sound of her voice, her smoother-than-honey laugh, and the twinkle in her eyes when she smiled. Hannibal had fully embraced his descent into madness over this girl. He only wished that she would remember her madness for _him._  

Bedelia’s commands seemed to fade ever so slightly in Hannibal’s mind. He itched for action, for progress. Patience had run its course; he had done enough waiting. 

As they ate, chatting of trivial things, Hannibal thought back to her outburst the day before. Her calm normality had been breached by a sudden flood of emotion, which could be nothing other than her old memories pounding against the inside of her skull. Even sitting there, in the dim room with nothing more than a few candles and the reflected light of the snow through the window, Hannibal could see the past weighing heavily on her. Ophelia’s eyes were heavy with dark rings, though she tried to cover them with makeup. Her hair lacked luster and just barely smelled of roses, where it once had the ability to fill an entire room with the scent. While she had put on muscle weight, recovering from her drug-fueled stint in London, the bones in her hands and shoulders still pressed harshly against her skin. At least the bell tinkling of her laugh had remained the same. 

Hannibal imagined her mind being something like a prison. In it, the true Ophelia lay in wait, every so often rising to bang against the walls. Until Ophelia was released from her mind-cage, she was nothing but a shell. Hannibal knew that it was his duty to release her. 

He took a bite of his meticulously prepared dish, only half listening to what Ophelia was telling him about a Greek Philosophy class she once took. He had heard it all before. Instead, he let his mind and his eyes wander. He found himself subtly winding his way from her eyes, to her lips, and further down to her chest. His heart thumped rapidly as they rested on the bit of fabric that covered her breasts. He took another bite. And another. He thought of what was underneath that fabric, what lay past a single pink button. Memory serving him well, Hannibal thought of what her skin felt like. Soft. Warm. He took a larger bite, followed by a swig of wine. The mediocre food was the only thing keeping one foot in reality. It was a harsh slap to his refined palette, but it was necessary. He was also peeved that his other appetite could not be satiated. It had been far too long since it had been satisfied. He felt a warm tug in the pit of his stomach, but chased it with a bite of food. 

After they had finished their meals and Hannibal’s hungers had left him, he was reluctant to return her to the clutches of Will and Alana. The drive seemed all too quick, for one moment he was helping her on with her cardigan outside the restaurant, and the next the car was parked in front of the house. One light was on in the living room. It could only mean that Will had waited for her. 

As Ophelia’s fingers clasped together in her lap, eyes focused on the floor of the car, Hannibal quickly and subtly pressed the “CD” button on the console. He was pushing a domino, setting into action a chain of crucial events. Ophelia did not notice. 

“I,” she looked up at him, twisting her torso in the seat as she unbuckled her seatbelt, “had a really great time. It was really fantastic just to talk to you for a while.”

Hannibal smiled, his lips pulled tight, “You are excellent company.”

Ophelia flushed. She looked down at her lap, tucking her hair behind her ears. Without hesitation, Hannibal hooked his fingers underneath her chin and pulled her lips to his. Her eyes were wide for a moment and her lips frozen. In her lap, her fingers tensed and in her throat her breath caught. But almost immediately, she melted into the kiss, appreciating its tentative gentleness. Her hands moved upward to rest on his shoulders. She leaned forward and his strong fingers cupped her cheek. As the kiss slowly began to deepen, Ophelia shuffled herself forward in the seat, leaning against the divide between them. 

_When you’re alone and life is making you lonely, you can always go... Downtown._

The music began ever so quietly, barely underscoring the sounds of their deepening breaths. It was hardly audible, but it pecked at Ophelia’s ears like birds scavenging for food. 

_When you’ve got worries, all the noise and the hurry, seems to help I know... Downtown._

Petula Clark’s voice was unusually grating, pounding at Ophelia’s head. She had heard the song before and it had never moved her, but suddenly it was as if the song was the most terrible thing her brain had ever processed. Her head began to pound, as if a jackhammer had taken up residence in her skull. She opened her eyes. 

Ophelia gasped, jumping back and smacking her head against the window. Before her eyes, Hannibal had disappeared. In fact, her surroundings had entirely changed, though they did not seem real. The edges of each surface blurred and swam, and Ophelia’s skull continued to pound beneath the pressure of the beat. 

_Just listen to the music of the traffic of the city. Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty. How can you lose?_

Ophelia’s head was suddenly wet and her chest heaved with heavy, labored breaths. She felt a sickly warmth covering her body. Around her, a dance studio undulated and swam, a single light illuminating the monstrous shadow that spread across the floor beside her. Her head snapped to the side and she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, its surface rolling like waves. 

_The lights are much brighter there. You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares, so go Downtown. Things will be great when you’re...._

A scream clawed its way up Ophelia’s throat and blared through her lips, no matter how hard she willed it to stay down. Blood covered her nearly from head to toe, for she was sitting in a dark pool of it. Somehow, though, she could not move from it. She could hardly move at all, save her head and eyes. But her head and eyes could not look away from the carnage that surrounded her. She screamed again, her head pounding and her chest clenching. 

Hannibal was outside and opening the passenger door in seconds, catching Ophelia as her convulsing body dropped toward the frozen ground. Her eyes had rolled back in her head and a sickening gurgling sound was choking its way out from between her clenched teeth. Hannibal’s eyes were wide with unmasked panic; this had not gone the way he had intended it to. He clutched her body close to his chest as he broke into a run, willing her small frame to cease its awful jerking. He feared that the convulsions would snap her frail bones in half.

Before he reached the front steps, Will burst through the front door, clad in baggy flannel pants and an old t-shirt. He fumbled toward them, his glasses askew, leaving the door wide open behind him. 

“Out of the way,” Hannibal barked as Will’s hands reached for Ophelia’s face. He felt no need to mask his fear in Will’s presence. Not when Ophelia was at stake. 

“What the hell did you do to her?” Will roared, following Hannibal, who had pushed past him. His eyes trained on Ophelia’s face, red and strained, as Hannibal lay her down on the wide, empty island in the center of the kitchen. 

“A pillow,” he commanded, “and a damp cloth. Now.” Will obeyed, tripping over the dogs as he ran from room to room. He fetched a pillow from the couch and a warm cloth from underneath the sink, then, hands shaking, hovered over Ophelia. Hannibal propped her head up on the pillow; it was shaking and slamming back onto the counter. He dabbed at the corners of her mouth, for a small stream of foam had appeared there. 

Will looked down at her body, his head spinning and his heart falling into his stomach. Her hands, held together at the wrist by Hannibal’s strong grip, were clenched and shaking as if she meant to strike out. Her back was arched and her legs kicked and shook. Her head continued to pound backwards, but luckily it only made contact with the pillow. 

“Wait it out, wait it out....” Hannibal hissed under his breath, his forehead beginning to bead with sweat.

His face did not move. It was a steely mask, ever trained on Ophelia’s whirring eyes. His other hand rested on her forehead, his fingers gently stroking her skin. Will could see past this sloppy mask. His eyes betrayed him. Hannibal’s face read guilt. Guilt, anger, and pain. This was his fault, Will was sure of it. 

Suddenly, Ophelia’s body froze. Her head barely quivered, but her body remained rigid. Hannibal’s thumb made circles on her forehead. Then, with a great exhale, she fell limp onto the table, her breathing labored, but even. 

“It’s over?” Will gritted his teeth, his hands resting lightly on her arm, which now lay by her side. 

“For now,” Hannibal nodded, his eyes never leaving her face, “Post-traumatic episodes are not uncommon.”

“What triggered it? Something had to have triggered it. From what I... _saw_ she didn’t hit her head that hard. She didn’t look sick. She didn’t fall. It just-”

“Swept over her,” Hannibal snapped, “unexpectedly.” There was a hint of falsehood in his voice. 

“Unexpectedly?” Will glared up at him, “Are you sure it was _unexpected_?”

Hannibal ground his teeth together, his jaw popping beneath his flushed skin. He could feel the heat of the dogs surrounding them. They all sat, their tails hanging limp, eyes darting from Will, to Ophelia, and then to Hannibal. Their closeness made Hannibal uncomfortable. It was suddenly very hot beneath his tailored suit. 

He took a step away from Ophelia, “Take her to the couch. You’ll need to watch her. She’ll wake up soon. Be careful of what she consumes; no solids until you are entirely sure that she won’t have another seizure.”

“And where are you going?” Will spat, “To rethink your plan? You were trying to, what, make a point? To who? She won’t get it. She won’t remember it, most likely. She’ll wake up disoriented, and with a headache. You were trying to prove something to me then. Alana’s not here, so who else would it be? Unless you’re just playing a _game_ with Ophelia. With her innocence. Trying to see how far you can go before you kill her. Well, you can be sure she’ll see you before you do. She’s suffered enough. I may have failed Abigail, but I will not fail Ophelia!”

Hannibal gazed down at Will’s fierce glare. He did not feel intimidated by pitiful Will Graham. Though he hid it well, he remained a time bomb. Alana knew it as well. And yet his words stung, oddly deep in his chest.

“You are not the only one who failed when Abigail was lost,” Hannibal took a final look at Ophelia, his upper lip twitching, then turned and strode from the house before guilt and pain could cripple him or knock him from his feet. Her had simply wanted her to remember. But the memory was clearly far too strong to be remembered right away. Perhaps too strong to be remembered at all. After all, it had nearly broken her to begin with.

For the first time in quite a while, Hannibal Lecter was lost.

 


	30. Chapter 30

“Smile.”

“Why?”

“I just... need you to. It’s what you’re supposed to do, whether or not you feel like it.”

Ophelia scowled, her head pounding. But, reluctantly, she pulled her face into the cheesiest smile she could muster, and was rewarded by Will with a pat on the knee. He knelt before her, his glasses slipping down his nose. The dogs circled the couch where she sat, panting and whining. Ophelia did not know why, though. 

She was still dressed in the cheery pink dress from the night before and her hair was still done up in curls, though they had tangled and frizzed overnight. Her shoes were stuffed unceremoniously beneath her purse, which had taken up residence beneath the coffee table. Will had not allowed her to leave the couch, even to change into something a little more comfortable. Trips to the bathroom were quite the production; Will stood outside, one hand on the knob as if waiting to hear her fall down the toilet to her certain death. The dogs always followed, a sea of fur, lolling tongues, and wagging tails undulating around Will’s knees. 

The morning sun streamed in through the windows; Will had neglected to close the curtains. A glass of water sat on the coffee table before her, along with a rumpled newspaper with bold, morbid headlines. 

“Chesapeake Ripper Killings Shake Baltimore Area” and “Copycat Strikes: Competition for the Ripper?” screamed at her from the coffee-stained pages. It looked as if Will had sat up all night waiting for her to come around. 

“A seizure?” she shook her head, refusing to smile for a moment longer, “What happened? The last thing I remember is getting in the car. I felt fine.”

“Doctor Lecter called it ‘Post-Traumatic Epilepsy’. I don’t know,” Will bit his tongue. Perhaps it would be wise to withhold the events of the night from her so as not to frighten her any further, “Probably... from the crash. I guess the effect is delayed. How do you feel?”

“Hungry. Thirsty. Tired, but I don’t want to sleep. I had weird dreams; I was in a dance studio and there was a _stag_ there, following me around. Surreal.”

Will shot to his feet, nearly knocking the smallest of his dogs off kilter, “Breakfast? I have eggs. And bacon. I’ll make breakfast. You... you stay. Relax or... or read the paper.”

Ophelia had not noticed how Will’s hands had begun to shake. As he hurried into the kitchen, she unfolded the paper and reclined on the couch. Winston jumped onto the cushion at her feet, resting his head on her bare legs. He sighed, gazing up at Ophelia as she began to read. 

The article detailed gruesome killings done by the Chesapeake Ripper, whose signature brand of horror was apparently removing organs and mounting the bodies in ceremonial ways. While the article was gruesome and graphic, Ophelia could not tear her eyes from the painfully small print. It was fascinating. The images on the page, while morbid, were masterfully crafty and rather artistic. The killer had used fear to create something far from ordinary. Of course, Ophelia would never think of sharing her thoughts on the matter with anyone. 

“Where is Alana again?” Ophelia called, “I forgot. Work, right?”

“She had to fly out of town for a case,” Will appeared in the doorway, a plate of slightly charred toast in one hand and a tall glass of orange juice in the other, “You’re stuck with... this. Not the best, culinary wise.”

Ophelia smiled sweetly, “I always preferred my toast on the dark side.” She folded the paper and set it aside. Will took note; she was aware of the Ripper now.

“I prefer working with something substantial. Like fish. Fishing is nice. It’s peaceful, but at the same time productive. You get something out of it.”

“Ever been ice fishing?” Ophelia took a crumbly bite of toast as Will plopped down on the couch between two of the dogs, maintaining a safe gap between he and Ophelia. 

“Ice fishing?”

“Yeah, you cut a hole in the ice and-”

“I know what ice fishing is,” Will snorted, pushing his hair out of his face. It had grown quite long and unruly. 

“I could cut your hair for you, if you like,” Ophelia shifted in her seat after a stagnant pause. 

Will shook his head, “I don’t need to cut my hair.”

There was another long silence as Will sipped his coffee and Ophelia took another bite of her toast. Winston sniffed at her plate, which was perched on her lap. 

“So, ice fishing,” Ophelia said, “Ever been?”

He shook his head, “Never. I’m afraid all I would catch is ice cubes.”

Ophelia laughed through another bite of toast, “That would be pretty lame I guess.”

There was another pause. Will looked down at his hands, rough from years of work. He knew that there was a topic that he had left unspoken, but he could not leave it hanging between them much longer. 

“So,” he cleared his throat, “how was your evening? Your,” throat cleared again, “date? Did you have a good time?”

“What I remember was nice,” Ophelia felt her cheeks flush with heat, “If it hadn’t been for the whole _seizure_ thing it would have been a total success.” In all honesty, and despite her sarcasm, it had been a wonderful date. She would have loved very much to see Hannibal again. But for some reason, she did not want to think about it or talk about it in Will’s presence. His warmth was distracting in the most wonderful way possible. 

“That would be enough to put a damper on anyone’s day.”

She laughed, “But it was cool. Hannibal was cool. I thought it would be intimidating. He doesn’t smile or really emote a lot, does he?”

Will forced a grin, “Not often.”

Another long silence, punctuated with sips of coffee and orange juice. Will’s palms began to sweat. 

“Um,” Ophelia stood, empty plate and glass in hand, “I guess I’ll get a shower. What are you doing today?”

Will stood as well, disturbing the dogs. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words formed as he watched Ophelia begin to retreat up the stairs, assuming he would not respond, to her makeshift bedroom. 

“Wait!” he called, a bit more loudly than he intended. The volume of his voice made her start. 

She turned to face him, the hem of her skirt swishing around her thighs, “Yeah?”

“Let’s go fishing.”

Ophelia half-laughed, “I thought you weren’t an ice fishing kind of guy.”

“I mean a _real_ fishing trip. Mountains, streams... somewhere without snow. I spent some time in Georgia as a boy. We don’t have to fish the _whole_ time necessarily. Alana’s gone and there’s not much for either of us here. The neighbors could feed the dogs. And....” Will realized that he had begun babbling. He clamped his mouth shut. The last time he proposed running away with Ophelia, it had been under much different circumstances. But she had agreed. Perhaps she would take to this idea as well. He glanced down at the words “Chesapeake Ripper”. They screamed at him from their crumpled place on the couch, confirming his need to take her away for a while. 

While they could not escape forever, a vacation would be an excellent opportunity for the rift between Ophelia and Hannibal to grow. She evidently did not remember kissing him; that was good. The less she thought about Hannibal, the better. If that meant directing her attention elsewhere, Will was willing to do just about anything. 

“I’ve heard the Georgia mountains are nice this time of year...” Ophelia looked down at her feet. 

“No snow, no ice. There’s a hot spring,” Will stuffed his hands in his pockets. He could feel sweat pulling his glasses down the bridge of his nose, but he did not wish to move his hands. The rim of his glasses obscured Ophelia’s face. Perhaps it would be easier that way. 

Ophelia paused for a moment, then a cheeky grin spread across her face, “Okay, but only if you let me trim your hair.”

Will shook his head, scratching his forehead and instinctively adjusting his glasses, “I suppose that’s a fair trade. I’ll make a few calls.”

“And then we’ll do something about that mop on your head!” Ophelia called from atop the stairs as Will retreated into the kitchen where the phone hung on the wall. She felt her stomach flutter with excitement; a spontaneous trip with the one person in the world she felt she truly trusted was just what the doctor ordered. 

 

As snow began to blanket the earth, a man covered in tattoos purchased a hunting rifle and _Petula Clarke’s Greatest Hits._ The woman who sold them to him resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow at this odd combination of spoils; she was sure it would not be wise to cross such a man, no matter what his taste in music and hunting gear.   


As he dug through his pockets for exact change, her eyes wandered to the front window of her little shop of curios. The car in which the man arrived was still running in the parking lot, and from it she could hear faint music. There was a woman in the passenger seat, but she was unidentifiable, a scarf and a pair of wide-rimmed sunglasses obscuring most of her face. The woman talked into a tape recorder, her shielded eyes on the tattooed man all the while. Her lips curled into a poisonous smirk as the man exited the shop, rifle and CD case in hand. 

The woman watched as the sped off, _Downtown_  blaring through the speakers, and the rifle on display on the dashboard. 

 


	31. Chapter 31

Hannibal sat four rows from the stage, and only one empty seat away from the center of the row. He found himself bracing against the shrill soprano of the title character in _Madama Butterfly_ , gripping his third empty champagne flute so tightly that it teetered on the brink of shattering. On his left, the usual opera-goer crowd sat, enraptured, wrapped in furs and dripping diamonds. Normally their extravagance entertained Hannibal; they were as far from the banality he despised as one could reasonably reach. But the empty seat on his right left him cold; nothing could change the icy frown on his face.  

He thought briefly of the flowers that were strewn haphazardly across the kitchen floor, and then of the pearl necklace that he had stuffed so unceremoniously into the top drawer of his bedside table. Surely the flowers had begun to wilt, laying there on the tile for so long without water. Hannibal did not care for the fate of the flowers, though, nor did he care for the state of the fine jewelry that his other acquaintances would have been so eager to get their paws on. 

They had chided him for neglecting to prepare them a feast for them as he so often did. But the more they chided him, the more he longed to make a feast out of one of _them_. Childish, sulking thoughts they were, but Hannibal knew that he had no one to please, no one to keep up his cool, collected pretense for. He would return home, remove his shoes, and spend the majority of the night at the bottom of a bottle of red. 

When the final ballad ended, and Madame Butterfly drew her last breath, Hannibal did not stand as quickly as he would have under different circumstances. As the rest of the audience rose to applaud, he glanced down at the empty seat beside him, slowly and deliberately. 

He pictured her small body there; perhaps she would have worn blue as she had before. Her hair would have shone in golden waves, and by now her hands would be clapping wildly, tears stinging her eyes and rapture glowing in her cheeks. But Hannibal merely stared into empty space. It was a tragic void in the midst of such a brightly gleaming crowd. 

The terribly rude teenager that Will had thought to hire to watch the dogs had been so unintelligent and uninterested in Hannibal’s presence, it nearly gave him a migraine. What little information he was able to glean from the girl had been punctuated by eye rolls, sighs, and the popping of spearmint gum. The only thing that kept Hannibal from killing the insolent little brat was the thought of how sad Ophelia would be upon finding that the dogs had starved to death in her absence. Under other circumstances, Hannibal would have been indifferent. 

Instead of slitting the girl’s throat and watching her bleed, he had crumpled his offering of roses and pearls and thrown them into the back seat of his car, barely looking at them long enough to dispose of them once he arrived at his home. He hated himself for waiting as long as he had to call on Ophelia again. The sitter had drolly informed Hannibal that Ophelia and Will had simply picked up and left for an impromptu getaway three days before. The day following her episode. 

Hannibal could not help but wonder if perhaps Will had taken advantage of her weak vulnerability, filling her head with perversions and half-truths. He stood, disguising his desire to bash in a skull with fierce clapping. His small entourage all shot him sideways glances, barely noting his odd humor. 

All save Wyatt, the greasy entrepreneur who had so obviously thrown himself all over poor Ophelia when they had first met. He stood directly to Hannibal’s left, watching his face dissolve into a gloomy frown. 

He elbowed Hannibal and hissed into his ear above the continued sound of clapping, “She seemed below your league anyway, Hannibal. You know how girls like her are.”

“Girls like her?” Hannibal snapped, “Tell me. How are they?”

Wyatt was taken aback for a moment, “Well... you know. Snooty little sly bimbo bitches who take what they want and then disappear, no matter how nicely you treat them or do them up. When’d she leave, anyway?” The smell of his aftershave was unbearably strong. A trace was left behind in the air around Hannibal. He could smell it mingling with the strong tones of whiskey and craft beer. Wyatt seemed to always smell of these things. It was a wonder how a man so oblivious to social function could convince himself that he possessed the right to make such egregious comments about other human beings. 

Hannibal’s jaw ground, popping and clicking, “This is hardly the time or the place to be discussing my relationship with Ophelia, Wyatt, though I appreciate the concern.” It was a blatant lie. He did not appreciate the dim little man’s concern; in fact, he had never been fond of Wyatt and his ever so obvious, and failing, attempts to weasel his way into their tightly knit group. Hannibal could not stand him for much longer, especially if he were to continue to speak so negatively of Ophelia. 

The scent of a struggling liver was strong on Wyatt. Hannibal would not hint at it, though. He did not deserve the warning. He deserved to suffer for the way he had mistreated his body. It would be intriguing to watch him deteriorate. 

Sadly, though, Hannibal did not have the patience. He yearned to see the rude little man’s life come to an abrupt end. 

“Actually,” Hannibal turned to him as they began to shuffle out of their row of seats, “I feel it would do me some good to discuss it with such a friend as yourself. Why don’t you accompany me back to my home for a few drinks?”

Wyatt’s face pulled into a beady-eyed grin, “I would want nothing more, my good man.” He then proceeded to babble on about the most trivial things, to which Hannibal did not listen. From the theatre to Hannibal’s front door, Wyatt talked, and talked, and talked. Hannibal was quite proud of himself for not murdering him outright then and there. 

He considered how he would do it. Suffocation was easiest, and required by far the least cleanup. He could always stick to the classic knife-throat or knife-chest, but he was not in the mood to clean gallons of blood from his pristine wooden floors. There was poison; he had no aversion to tainting liquid. It was food he would not stand to see made unclean. Strangulation and beating were also quite plausible and also quite a stress reliever. Endless possibilities awaited Hannibal just beyond his foyer, and it had been far too long since his last tryst. In fact, he had not killed since Ophelia’s disappearance. But her presence had given him renewed vigor as well as a fresh bout of ravenous insatiability. 

As he poured Wyatt a drink, a sense of calm washed over him as he made a series of decisions. A mask of pure tranquility settled over his face. Hannibal was in his stride, and it had been missed dearly. 

In his mind, he pictured a slab of meat simmering in a pan along with a wide array of savory vegetables and a drizzle of dark, delicious herbed sauce. His mouth watered, but he waited, taking a sip of his drink and watching as Wyatt tossed his back quickly. Through deep swallows, the man waxed false philosophic. 

He would not be missed by anyone. 

In one swift motion, Hannibal latched his hand onto the back of Wyatt’s neck and slammed his head down onto the table, directly atop his glass, which shattered, splintering into his face. He was knocked unconscious immediately, and Hannibal wasted no time. With some effort, he dragged the plump man’s body into the kitchen, ignoring his unconscious groans. For the slightest of moments, he looked down at his old comrade’s face, bloodied and torn to shreds by the pieces of glass that had wedged themselves deep within the pudgy skin. Hannibal felt no sadness or remorse; he never did. In fact, in this case he felt a strange, refreshing sense of relief, as if an enormous weight had been lifted from atop his shoulders. He would be glad to be rid of this man. 

It was almost an erotic feeling, ending a life in honor of another. Hannibal imagined what the old Ophelia would have felt if she had knows that he had defended her honor. Her cheeks would flood with color. Her fingers would clench as her stomach would proceed to twist into knots. Hannibal, with Wyatt’s blood on his hands, would trail his fingers across her quivering collarbone. Her lips would part and an involuntary gasp would escape her lips. And then....

Hannibal was snapped from his brief daydream. He had slipped in and out of similar visions quite frequently lately. But he knew there were much more pressing matters at hand; namely, the fat man bleeding out on his kitchen floor. His blood blossomed out like the wilted flowers on the tile next to him. 

With a hard exhale, Hannibal rolled his sleeves up above his elbows and bent down so that his face was level with Wyatt’s. He pictured himself as the Angel of Death, with great, fantastic black wings spreading overhead and shielding them from God’s watchful eyes. And with the kiss of death, the Angel would claim another soul. 

“What do I do with you, then?” Hannibal hissed, “Your heart is far too black to consume; I don’t prefer my meat charred. Or too fatty for that matter.” He thought for a while, twisting a piece of glass back and forth in Wyatt’s cheek, “Ah! I know where you belong,” Hannibal cast a glance over his shoulder at the dark window that peered out onto the backyard, “My vegetable garden is in need of fertilizer, Wyatt. Usually I would prefer horse shit, but I suppose I have the next best thing.” 

And within the span of a single breath, Hannibal pulled the largest of the glass shards from Wyatt’s face and slashed his neck with it. He watched with great serenity as the man’s life left his body through the gash in his throat. With a flick of his forefinger, he wiped a speck of blood from his jacket. 

Hannibal stood, quite bored with the spluttering beneath him. All his mind could focus on now was the gift he would begin preparing for Ophelia within the week. A basket of freshly fertilized vegetables would surely tickle her fancy. 

It would have to. Hannibal could not be patient much longer. 

 

 


	32. Chapter 32

Ophelia had never heard so many birds singing at once. Accompanied by the babbling of a nearby stream, the sound of their chorus of songs filled the sunset with an ease that settled onto the two still figures below them. Ophelia and Will sat perched on boulders at the edge of a small lake nestled deep in the mountains of northern Georgia. It sat about a mile north of Will’s cabin, and they had spent the entire day frolicking on its banks and fishing for their dinner. Ophelia was quite pleased with the change of scenery; she was relieved when they first arrived to find that she no longer needed her enormous winter coat. Leaving it abandoned in the cabin, she had burst out into the sunshine in old ripped jeans and a cotton tee, not caring in the slightest that the scars on her arms and collarbone were starkly visible. 

She had been happier in the few days that they had been isolated together than in her entire life put into one, so she figured. Waking up to find Will on the couch drinking coffee in the silence of early morning was oddly comforting, as if he were a stalwart protector, there when she awoke and when she lay down to sleep at night. 

Spending every moment of every day with him had been more than therapeutic; it had been a miracle. Ophelia had not thought once of her lost memories or of Hannibal, or of the horrible dreams that had plagued her. All she thought of was the trees, the clear Georgia sky, the lake and stream, and Will. He was warmth and he was safety, whether she explicitly realized it or not. Whenever he smiled at her, she felt it. After she caught her first fish, he smiled. The warmth spread. She started a fire on her own and roasted a stick full of marshmallows and he smiled. It was not the fire, then, that warmed Ophelia’s bones. 

The way his glasses never sat quite straight on the bridge of his nose, the sweaters he always bundled himself up in, the nervous way he ruffled his hair when she stood close for too long; Will was in his own way perfectly imperfect. Ophelia longed to adjust his glasses, to feel the soft fabric of his sweater, and to run the tips of her fingers through his untamable hair. She could not quite put a name to the feeling of warmth that his presence created within her, but she knew that she did not ever want it to go away. 

“It’ll be getting dark soon,” Will began to reel in the line that he had just cast, the hook at the end empty, “We should head back. Maybe start another fire.”

“More s’mores?” Ophelia grinned, following suit and reeling in her line.

“If you want,” he smiled, leaning down to collect the tackle box from the base of the boulder on which he was perched, “we can run into town to get hotdogs if that sounds appetizing.”

“Oh, yeah,” Ophelia grinned, sliding down from her boulder and stretching her arms above her head, “Feast of champions.”

Will chuckled, “Fine dining at its best.”

“Ghost stories tonight,” Ophelia followed Will as he started down the path that they had created from the cabin to the lake, “by the fire? That’s a pretty typical camping thing, so I hear.”

“I’ll have to make up some ghost stories,” Will fibbed, “I don’t know too many.”

“Well neither do I,” Ophelia leapt over a cluster of roots, “So we can just make it all up as we go along!”

Before Will had a chance to respond, there was a crackling and a rustling through the trees just out of their line of vision. They both froze, their lures swinging back and forth from the ends of their fishing poles. 

“What was that?” Ophelia hissed.

Will’s eyes scanned the tree line, “Probably just a deer. Keep moving.” He grabbed her fingers and pulled her forward, urging her along with every step. 

A dark figure flashed through Ophelia’s peripheral vision and she stopped. She could barely make out what it was before it disappeared from view. 

“There it is again,” Ophelia muttered, this time pulling her fingers from Will’s grasp and abandoning the path. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Will hissed, lunging forward in an attempt to grab her. But his fingers came just short of the hem of her shirt as she dropped her fishing pole and darted further into the trees. 

“I saw it!” she called, now running at a full sprint, “A huge black deer! A stag!”

Will’s stomach dropped, “ _No!_ ” he called, his voice cracking and his head beginning to pound, “Don’t follow it! It’s a trap! Ophelia! Ophelia, come back!”

The only response he was given was the sound of her feet crunching on fallen branches and leaves. He followed her as best he could, weaving between trees. His eyes remained locked on the tiny flashes of blonde that he caught every now and then as she flung herself further into the growing evening darkness. 

Finally, as Will burst through a thicket of trees into a clearing, he caught up with her. She stood in the middle of the small, clear patch of grass and flowers, her eyes locked onto a bit of darkness just beyond the tree line. The moon was just beginning to rise, casting faint shadows across her face. 

“What is it?” Will took a step toward her, dropping the tackle box at his side.

“Do you see it?” Ophelia whispered, pointing into the shadows, “It’s right there.”

“What? What do you see?” he took another step forward, his hands slowly rising in case he had a need to catch her. Perhaps this was one of her episodes. He could have sworn she was better. _He_ had even been feeling a bit better. 

“It’s right there,” she took a tentative step forward, “Just right-” And without any warning, the ground beneath her collapsed and she fell, her screams echoing as she descended into the darkness.

Will threw himself down onto his stomach, dangling over the edge of the hole in the earth, “Ophelia! Oh my God, Ophelia!”

There was a thump and a few muffled curses, and then Ophelia’s voice rang out, “I’m fine! I’m okay!”

Will squinted into the darkness, “Where are you?”

“It’s a cave!” she called, “There’s a tunnel! I want to see where it leads; come down here!”

“You want me to willingly jump into a hole in the middle of the woods? How far down are you?”

“Well when you say it like that... It’s a few feet and then an incline down to the floor. Bend your knees and you’ll be fine!”

“Jesus Christ...” Will stood, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand, “Ridiculous... fine! I’m coming down.” He hurried to the tackle box, digging through lures and bits of soggy bread until he found his old flashlight. It barely shed any light on the dark hole before him, but it was better than nothing. With a deep breath, he slid down into the hole, expecting a deep drop like something leading to Wonderland. But instead after a brief second of falling, his feet found a slope. And within moments, he slammed into Ophelia, who was waiting for him on solid ground. 

“I can’t believe you just convinced me to do that,” Will shook his head, hitting his flickering flashlight against the palm of his hand, “How are we going to get out of here?”

Ophelia shrugged, grinning, “We’ll figure something out. Adventure, right?” And with that she took off down the narrow dirt corridor before them, Will hurrying along behind her with the flashlight in hand. 

After a few moments of silent clambering, the small passage opened up into an enormous chamber, lit by a beam of moonlight that cut through a hole in the ceiling. In the far corner of the room was a pool of illuminated water that led underneath a rocky overhang. 

“Wow,” Ophelia guffawed, “This is not what I was expecting,” she walked over to the pool of clear water and slipped off one shoe, dipping her toe into the shallow edge. 

“Well?” Will tapped his foot on the dirt floor. As much as he enjoyed watching Ophelia discover and adventure, he was still quite worried about how they would get out of the cave. 

“The water’s warm,” Ophelia turned back to him, grinning, “and that tunnel leads to the lake; you can see it if you squat.” She leaned down and pointed to where the water disappeared below the overhang. 

“So....” Will shook his head, not quite following her logic.

“So,” Ophelia removed her other shoe, “we swim for it!” 

Before Will could protest, she began to fumble with the buckle on her jeans. His face flushed with heat and his eyes darted around the cavern as Ophelia shimmied out of her trousers and tossed them to the side, along with her shoes. When Will allowed his eyes to wander over her body again, she stood with her back to him, clad in nothing but her underwear and bra. He felt as if he should not be looking, but there was something entrancing about the way the moonlight hit her skin. It nearly entirely erased the scars that covered her skin and turned her hair a bright shade of white, almost ethereal. He watched as she slowly lowered herself into the water, shivering ever so slightly. 

Once the water reached her chest, she turned to face him, a smile spreading across her face, “Well? Aren’t you getting in?” 

“I-I...” Will looked down at the ground, the flashlight flickering out, then back at Ophelia, her face expectant.

“It’s the only way we’re getting out of here,” Ophelia turned around in circles, her voice a sing-song bell. Her fingers absentmindedly slid underneath the straps of her bra, and Will’s glasses slid an inch down his nose. 

“Aren’t you... cold, or....”

Ophelia laughed and splashed forward, advancing on Will with a glint in her eye. The water glistened on her small body in the moonlight and his breath caught in his throat. 

“Come on,” Ophelia’s fingers latched onto the front of his sweater, “live a little.” Will’s eyes darted downward, quickly drinking in her body. Once he allowed himself to have a momentary indulgence, he felt a warm knot begin to grow in his stomach. 

With her assistance, Will slipped out of his sweater. He was rarely this willing to be so vulnerable in the presence of women. Perhaps it was the full moon. 

“Hurry up,” Ophelia spun around, tossing Will’s shirt into the pile with her clothes, “it’s warmer in the water.”

Will obeyed, shakily slipping out of his shoes and unbuckling his jeans. With slow steps, he followed Ophelia across the dirt floor and into the water. She had been right; the water was extraordinarily warm. 

He was suddenly very aware of how close he and Ophelia were. They stood face to face in the center of the pool, her chest pressing against his bare skin. Will wanted nothing more than to brush her hair out of her face. He had never quite noticed until now how lovely her face truly was. Her eyes were kind, and her mouth was settled into an eternal smile. 

Without fully realizing what he was doing, Will brought his hand up to the side of her face, his thumb rubbing a droplet of water from beneath her eye. His hand remained there for a moment, for he did not know what else to do but enjoy the warmth of her cheek against his hand. 

But in one deft movement, Ophelia pulled his face down to hers and kissed him firmly, wrapping her arms around his neck. His lips parted as he mindlessly accepted the kiss, stumbling further into the water. Will allowed his hands to slide down her body to rest on her hips as they waded further into the pool together. Soon, Ophelia’s head was barely above water, so Will hoisted her up so that her legs wrapped around his waist, the kiss deepening. Her hands clasped onto the back of his neck, anchoring to him as they stumbled deeper and deeper. 

And then, Will stumbled over a rock on the floor of the pool and they pitched over, splashing into the warm water, a tangled mess of limbs. Ophelia’s laughter echoed around the cavern once they regained their balance, standing a few inches apart on solid ground. Will could not help but let her laughter infect him; he began to chuckle along with her. She set off backwards, wading deeper into the pool and sending playful splashes in Will’s direction. A smile spread across his face, and he tossed his glasses onto the bank with the rest of his clothes as he advanced after her, splashing right back. 

Ophelia’s back smacked into the wall of rock that made up the back end of the pool, and she let out a delighted shriek as Will advanced, still splashing away. But before she could retaliate or duck away, he stopped, the water undulating around his bare chest. For a moment he just stared at her, both of their cheeks tinged with pink and their hair dripping. 

And then, she slipped the straps of her bra from her shoulders and undid the clasp. She tossed it aside, her eyes trained on Will’s. He felt his face flush with heat and his stomach flop and flutter. The heat in his face trickled down into the pit of his stomach as Ophelia leisurely ran the tips of her fingers across her bare collarbone. The water, coming up to just beneath where her fingers played, distorted her nearly fully exposed body. The knot in Will’s stomach lurched. 

Ophelia placed her hands on Will’s chest. She felt his muscles tense at her touch; a smile played on her lips. Her hands wandered, leaving his chest and trailing down to his abdomen, and then back up again to his shoulders. Will felt as if she was inspecting him, gaging his worth. 

But then her hands clasped his and guided them to the bit of soft skin beneath her neck, “I want you to feel me.” Her hands were but a soft whisper on his, for she intended to allow him full control over her body. Something in the back of her mind urged her to reassure him that she was real. That, there in the light of the moon, he was safe and in control. So she removed her hands from his and took a step closer, water lapping between them. 

Will’s hands tentatively roamed over her shoulders, stirring slightly at the feeling of bones pressing harshly against skin. His hands flitted down again, soft as butterflies, to her chest. Breath hitching in his throat, his hands wandered downward ever further, and Ophelia did not protest. 

She reached up and knotted her fingers in his hair, pulling him downward. He obeyed, leaning down and hitching his hands underneath her thighs and lifting her up. Her back pressed against the rock wall, he kissed her again, pressing his chest against hers to keep her from falling. Her fingers wound tighter in his curls, and his dug into the underside of her thighs, eliciting from her a small, breathy gasp. 

For the slightest of moments, he imagined her with Hannibal in this way. He imagined his hands roaming her delicate body, his mouth on hers. And instead of causing him to shrivel as it once would have, it made him brazen, as if by touching Ophelia in this way, he was marking his territory. 

And yet, this did not feel like a “tactic”. There was nothing he wanted more in that moment than to be skin to skin with Ophelia. He could think of nothing more than her breath mingling with his, and the water lapping between them. For a brief moment, he felt as if he knew himself. 

But Will was snapped from his thoughts when Ophelia nipped at the skin of his neck, playfully but firmly. She shimmied out of his grasp and dunked below the water for a moment, her fingers trailing down his torso as she went. 

She reemerged, a trickster’s glint in her eye, and purred, “Let’s get out of here.” And without a word, she ducked below the stone wall, leaving Will to collect their clothing and follow into the dark night. 

 

 

The shooting range in Baltimore was mostly deserted that night; it was far too cold for anyone to leave their homes. Anyone save two dark figures in the farthest corner, who had spent the majority of their day there. 

The manager of the dingy establishment watched them with listless disinterest from the window by his desk. He watched as the recoil of their most recent test subject sent a mass of red curls stumbling into the wall. The second much more substantial, figure tore the shotgun from her hands and popped a few rounds into the target before them, as if instructing her. 

The red curls tried again, and this time managed to hit the target without losing her balance. A gleeful laugh echoed around the range as the swinging lights overhead continued to flicker. 

 

 


	33. Chapter 33

Ophelia flung herself back onto the bed, giggling as she bounced away from Will. Arching her back, she wriggled out of her shirt and flung it aside as Will slowly approached the edge of the bed, his shaky fingers finding the covers. His eyes remained fixed on hers, as if he had not given himself permission to see her body. 

She knew that she had him entirely under her control. With a bite of her lip and a fiery flare of her eyes, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her pants and slipped them over her hips. As if on command, Will pulled them from her legs and tossed them into the darkness that surrounded the bed. 

“What are you waiting for?” Ophelia wined, sitting up and cocking her head to the side, small pieces of her hair falling across her eyes. Will’s lips scrambled for words as she scooted toward him, her hands winding lightly over her thighs. 

He allowed Ophelia’s legs to wind around his waist, pulling him closer and closer. Without thinking, he found his fingers knotting in her hair and a fire growing in the pit of his stomach. His breath caught in his throat as Ophelia ripped open his flannel shirt, nearly popping its buttons. A cold air ghosted over their bare backs. Ophelia shivered. 

Suddenly emboldened- perhaps the cold air had awoken him- Will crawled forward on the bed, trapping Ophelia beneath him. His lips found the nape of her neck and travelled downward, eliciting small hums and sighs from the back of Ophelia’s throat. His hands skimmed down her sides and came to rest on her hips. When she began to fumble with the buttons on his pants, his grip tightened, fingertips pressing harshly into her flesh. 

The cold air was suddenly quite present in the room, as if every window had been opened and winter let in. It skimmed over Will’s back; his body acted as a shield, protecting her from the chill entirely. The wind ruffled his hair. Ophelia smiled, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. She raked her fingers down Will’s back as his hand found the warmth between her legs. Back arched, a gasp escaped her lips and the knot at the base of her stomach tightened. She rolled her hips against his hand and his fingers latched onto her lacy underwear, tearing it from her body. Ophelia did the same to him, shimmying Will’s boxers down his legs. With a grunt, he managed to kick them off his legs and into the darkness to join her discarded clothes. 

Ophelia’s hands trailed down his chest to his hardness; she reveled in the immediate belaboring of breath she had created. Her lips crashing against his, she fumbled her fingers clumsily around him and slowly worked her hand up and down. His hips pressed down against hers, and the knot in her stomach hardened further. 

In one deft swoop, Will flipped onto his back, pulling Ophelia atop him. With a unanimous exhalation, she rocked her hips forward so that they were immediately and entirely connected. Will wound his arms around her back, steadying them as she bucked her hips, his length slamming into her. 

She tossed her head back, hair beginning to resemble a bramble bush. Her lips parted, short breaths escaping them. Will filled her entirely and held her body in his arms as they felt the heat in their cores begin to blaze, uncontrolled. 

But then, suddenly, Ophelia felt a new presence behind her. A new pair of hands clasped her shoulders, and a foreign mouth ravaged her neck. 

Will did not seem to notice, but Ophelia’s head snapped to the side as her hips continued to rock, her eyes wide. There she found Hannibal, his body entirely exposed and his face taut and fiery in a possessive, animalistic way. His chest pressed into her back, his hands skimming the damp skin of her neck and shoulders. She felt the clasp of her bra snap and it fell away as Hannibal’s hands wandered over her chest and his lips hungrily sucked at her neck. 

And then his lips disappeared and a cold strip of leather snapped over her throat, clasping behind her, startling her. Ophelia’s fingers flew to her neck, tracing the metal studs that adorned her new collar. Hannibal held a leash-like strip of leather in his hand, pulling her back. The further he pulled her, the more distant Will felt, though he remained solidly between her thighs. His hands continued to grasp at her, as if her skin was what bound his contract with gravity. 

Ophelia’s arms wound around Hannibal’s neck, stretching her back into an arch and loosening the pull of the collar ever so slightly. His hands held fast to her lithe figure, one hand on the collar, and the other trailing down from her shoulder, past her chest, and downward. 

With one swift motion, he pulled her backward, off of Will, tossing her onto the bed beside him. As if obeying a command, Will slid from the bed mindlessly and wordlessly, coming to stand on the opposite side of the bed as Hannibal’s eyes devoured Ophelia’s naked body. His face did not betray an emotion as he set the leash onto the bed beside her. 

She writhed on the bed, her mind whirring as the heat in the pit of her stomach overwhelmed her. Her hands ran over her body, over her breasts, between her legs, and around her thighs. With an impatient moan, they came to a rigid stop at her sides, fingers knotting in the blanket beneath her. 

Hannibal began to circle the bed, rubbing the nape of his neck as he went, his eyes never leaving Ophelia. She rolled about, her hands still exploring her body, so that she was sure he could see every angle of her. She ached for him. 

He reached out his fingers and touched her ankle ever so slightly, running them lightly up her calf. She whined and moaned, the knot in her stomach unbearably tight. Hannibal removed his fingers from her skin, the slightest of smirks crossing his lips. He looked over at Will for a moment, who still stood at the end of the bed, watching Ophelia as if she had suddenly become deliciously unattainable. 

Relishing in his possession, Hannibal crept forward until he was on his knees above Ophelia. His fingers hooked beneath the collar and he pulled her brusquely upward, startling her for a moment. His kissed her then, and their hungers matched. Ophelia’s hands relished the feeling of Hannibal’s muscles, taut beneath his damp skin.

His lips never leaving hers, Hannibal pulled her onto his lap, one hand on the collar and the other hooking beneath her thigh. He slammed into her immediately, and her breath caught in her throat, a small squeak escaping her lips. Hannibal worked her hips with his hand, stroking and rocking her back and forth. He bit down on her lower lip as a moan slipped from her mouth. He tasted blood. 

But then, over her shoulder, he saw Will. The harried man had suddenly turned stony, his face calm. His eyes burned into Ophelia’s back. With one quick movement, Will leapt across the bed, hooking two fingers beneath the back of the collar. He pulled her head back, his hands winding around her neck. 

As Hannibal’s fingers pressed more and more roughly into Ophelia’s hips, Will’s teeth nipped at the skin of her collarbone. Her back stretched back, a bridge between Hannibal and Will. They both seemed not to notice the other, focused only on devouring her body. She made no attempts to protest. 

Ophelia could feel the knot in her stomach threatening to unravel. Hannibal slammed harder and harder into her, adjusting his position so that she was she was upright, forcing Will to follow, pressing his chest into her back, his lips on her neck and his hands on her chest. She let her head fall onto his shoulder and her arms wind back around his neck as her hips continued to buck and quiver. A gasp escaped her lips as she felt herself begin to climax. Her lips began to form a name...

 

... and then her head snapped up, slamming back against the worn headrest of the passenger seat in Will’s car. Her head whipped around, disorientation blurring her vision. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Will chuckled, glancing over at her, his hands remaining firmly on the the steering wheel, “Nice nap?”

“Wha-” Ophelia blinked hard, her eyes struggling to adjust to the dull grey light that flooded thorough the windshield. Rain pounded down on the roof of the car, creating a rushing sound that nearly drowned out Will’s gentle voice.

“Don’t worry, I don’t mind the silence. I actually prefer the open road when it’s quiet. You do talk in your sleep, though.”

Ophelia blanched, her mind suddenly clear, “Did I say anything?”

“Nah,” Will shook his head, “It was just a lot of mumbling. You hit the hay pretty early last night; I guess fishing is too much for city girls like you. I’m surprised you’ve slept through this storm.”

Relieved, she exhaled. With a yawn, she pulled down the vanity mirror and scrutinized her face. She sported a large red spot where she had fallen asleep forehead-down on the window. Her hair was a bed headed mess, pulled into a hasty ponytail at the crown of her head. What little makeup she had applied at the ungodly hour that Will had insisted they leave had stayed intact, much to her relief. 

She glanced over at Will and her face burned red. He stared at the road ahead, his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. His face betrayed no knowledge of her dreams; and what vivid dreams they had been. For the slightest of moments, Ophelia wondered if there was any accuracy in what she had envisioned of Will. She shuddered, a knot in her stomach. The cave, the pond, the moonlight... it was all a bit overwhelming to awaken from. And she knew not whether she wished it to be true. 

For a while, they sat in silence. Ophelia stewed in the aftershocks of her imagination and Will remained a stoic rock at the helm. The rain continued to pound well into the afternoon, and when it finally stopped they found themselves nearly crossing the Maryland border. When it was quiet enough, Ophelia turned on the radio, desperate for something to cut the silence. 

“ _FBI continue to search for the victims of recent murders. Baltimore-based agent Jack Crawford has declined to release a statement, but sources claim that these murders follow the pattern of the Chesapeake Ripper. I thought that was all over, but I guess not. What do you think, Tom?”_

_“Well, Reed, I don’t know what to think, but I do know that since all previous suspects have been cleared, this guy is still out there.”_

_“Stay safe, Baltimore. Now let’s switch to something a little lighter. What do you say?”_

_“Sure, Reed, let’s talk about the lunar eclipse that’s coming up this Wed-”_

Will shut off the radio, his brows furrowed and his mouth pulled into a grimace. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and sighed. His glasses had begun to slip down the bridge of his nose. 

“There’s that Chesapeake Ripper again...” Ophelia sighed, “Seems like I’m hearing that everywhere nowadays. Came out of nowhere.”

“He’s been around longer than you may realize,” Will huffed, his teeth clenched.

“What do you mean?”

Will took a deep breath, as if waiting for the correct words to form themselves in his mind, “Did I ever tell you about my job?”

“Teaching, right? Yeah, you’ve told me a little bit.”

He shook his head, “Before that.”

“Before teaching? Nope.”

“Well, I worked for the FBI before I was a teacher. Criminal profiler in the lab and in the field. ‘Special Investigator’, I was called.”

“‘Special Investigator Graham’. That’s got a nice ring to it,” Ophelia grinned. She could feel the tension in the air, and she wanted desperately to cut it. 

Will did not return her smile, “There wasn’t anything ‘special’ about it. The things I’ve seen weren’t ‘special’. It’s easy to let these things get into your mind, to taint the way you see the colors of the world around you.”

“What do you see?” It was as if all the oxygen had left the space between them. Ophelia suddenly felt very small. Will’s face sat in hard lines. 

“I see your relationship with Hannibal Lecter,” he snapped, “and I see it as a danger.”

“Why?” Ophelia was taken aback. 

“Doctor Lecter and I were friends once. I thought I had found a kindred spirit, someone I could rely on when my... when my mind was not big enough for my thoughts. I understand that he is fond of you. And I also understand that you yearn to recover your memories of him. But-”

“But what?” Ophelia suddenly found herself agitated, “Two different versions of my life are being thrown at me by you and Alana on one hand, and Hannibal on the other.” Why he was suddenly prying so deeply into her mind, she could not understand. He could not presume to tell her who she could or could not see. She was an adult after all. 

“But,” Will took a deep breath, choosing to ignore the truth in her accusation, “Hannibal Lecter is not a good man. He is smart, too smart. Smart enough to have cumulated an insatiable curiosity concerning the inner mechanisms of the human mind. Pulling at the strings, he... he is concerned with you and anyone else for no other reason than to wind you up and see how you tick. I know this firsthand.”

“How?”

“We... worked on a case together. Back in my FBI days. He was my psychiatrist, so perhaps the idea of us working together is inappropriate. Psychiatry blown into morbid fascination. Hannibal has a way of.... I got too close to the case. It affected me in a way no one expected. Empathy, they called it.”

“Empathy,” Ophelia echoed.

“In an extreme sense,” Will’s lip twitched into a grim smile, “Hannibal enjoyed... prodding me, testing me like a rabid rat in a maze with no end. He is the reason I am so....” His voice trailed off. Ophelia nodded; there was no need for him to continue. She often heard his strangled cries in the night, watched him from the shadows as he paced about in the moonlight, covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Ophelia would never have guessed that Hannibal would be the cause of that. Handsome, kind Hannibal who she thought she knew. 

Angry heat flared in her chest as she watched Will. His face contorted as if he were remembering a lifetime of horrors. She wished to know more, but was wise enough not to prod and pry. 

“Once you crumple a piece of paper, you can never smooth it out again. It’ll never be clean again, no matter how diligently you work at the wrinkles,” Will muttered, “I won’t see you soiled. Not like me.”

Ophelia reached her fingers out toward him, and his hand immediately found hers, as if she were the only thing anchoring him there in the universe. 

“There’s nothing wrong with you, if that’s what you’re implying,” Ophelia squeezed his hand, turning her body so that she faced him. His eyes remained on the road. 

Will shook his head, “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

“I’m a big girl, Will,” she smiled ruefully, “I can take care of myself. And you, too.”

He said nothing. 

“I may not know what your past with Hannibal was like, but I do know that since I’m around nothing’s going to touch you,” she squeezed his hand tight, and his face flushed. 

“You have yourself to worry about-”

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

While Ophelia’s face remained placid, her interior whirred with the heat of a thousand angry thoughts and questions. As she stared straight ahead at the road before them, her hand still latched onto Will’s, she yearned to stand face-to-face with Hannibal. What had he done to Will that caused him such grief, such fear? If he truly was the cause of Will’s emotional deterioration, she would surely make Hannibal pay for it. The fierce protection she felt for Will would not let her act otherwise, that much she knew for sure. 

The sun had dipped below the horizon by the time they reached Alana’s house. The sound of barking accompanied the flicker of light that illuminated Alana as she stepped out onto the porch, wrapped in a robe and a forced smile. She received them with stilted warmth, taking Ophelia’s single bag and insisting she shower and get to bed. Will hung behind, stooping to greet each of his dogs individually. 

Ophelia stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned back to Will. She watched him for a moment, thinking of what lay in the unknown of his seemingly dark past. She yearned to learn the truth. And if Alana and Will wouldn’t give it to her entirely, there was only one place to which she could turn. 

Before falling into a fitful sleep, Ophelia stared at her notepad. _Hannibal Lecter_ glared up at her from the yellow page. Heated images from her vivid dream flashed through her mind, but they were streaked with black, tainted by Will’s claims. 

She shut the notepad and allowed herself to settle under the covers. Tomorrow, whether she was sure of it or not, Ophelia would have to choose a side. To pledge her allegiance to one side of the war or the other. 

Which side she would choose, she did not know. 

 


	34. Chapter 34

Though the snow reached just past her knees, Ophelia did not feel cold. In fact, she felt quite hot, for fire and brimstone filled her chest and steam seemed to be trickling from her ears. She stared intently at the door to Hannibal’s office as she plowed along the sidewalk, Will’s words playing like a broken record in her mind. 

She had not planned out exactly what she would say to Hannibal once they were face to face, but she knew that _something_ had to be said. Because of this, she had not been able to find sleep the night before, and had found herself watching Will pace from the shadows of the living room. He did not sleep much either. Ophelia had not wanted to disturb him; the silence of nighttime was the only company he seemed to need. 

Watching him and piecing together his revelation had lit a fire in the pit of Ophelia’s stomach. While she desired to be fair and truthful, she also longed to give Hannibal a good smack across the face. If Will’s words the day before had been truthful, the good doctor surely deserved it. 

The warmth of the waiting room was a much needed relief; Ophelia was sure she would suffocate if she had to stay wrapped in a scarf much longer. Will had insisted on bundling her up, wrapping her in a coat, scarf, mittens, and hat, as if she would turn to ice if the cold air bit at her for too long. So upon finding reprieve within the warmth of thebuilding, Ophelia immediately took to disrobing. 

But a curt cough stopped her short, “I was under the impression my appointment would not be encroached upon, but I see that Doctor Lecter has double-booked himself. I have to say I am displeased with his time management skills.”

Ophelia studied the source of the voice as she pulled her scarf from over her nose and mouth. The woman who sat in the armchair opposite her was a small, mousy-looking creature, and yet the presence with which she held herself was that of a much more imposing personage. She sat, cross legged and straight backed, looking Ophelia up and down as if she were offended by the snow that Ophelia had tracked inside. 

“Oh, I don’t mean to...” Ophelia glanced at the door to Hannibal’s office, then back at the woman, “I’m not... I’m just here for-” Before she could formulate a desperate excuse, the door swung open and a harried man shuffled between the two women, leaving Hannibal standing in the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. 

“Mrs. Huntington,” Hannibal acknowledged the woman without taking his eyes off of Ophelia’s bundled figure, “I see you have met my intern. She will be sitting in on all ofmy appointments today. Or she would, if she had been on time.”

Ophelia immediately bowed her head, playing along, “I’m so sorry, Doctor Lecter. You see, the bus-”

“No excuses,” he snapped, a twinkle in his eye, gleaming just for her, “Please come in, both of you.” The woman stood in a huff, and stalked past Hannibal, into the office, her coat coming off in a flurry of fur. Ophelia stayed opposite Hannibal for a moment, refusing to let a smile cross her features as Hannibal evidently expected of her. 

As she began to follow Mrs. Huntington into the room, Hannibal placed a light hand on her shoulder. She braced herself against his touch, but he merely raised a single finger and quickly brushed a snowflake from the tip of her nose. 

“Come,” he shut the door behind him, gesturing to the balcony overlooking the room. Hannibal did not wait for her to respond, but took his seat across from Mrs. Huntingdon, who waited impatiently in one of the armchairs adjacent to the ornately curtained window. Ophelia hurried up to the balcony, where she quietly began peeling layer after layer of winter wear off of her warm frame. She began by unwinding the heavily knit scarf, draping it across the arm of a chair between two bookshelves. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of Hannibal out of the corner of her eye. Though he appeared to be listening intently to Mrs. Huntingdon’s tale about her “little heathen” grandchildren, his eyes darted every so often to Ophelia. They lingered a bit longer each time, as if he were afraid she might disintegrate.

Finally she was able to sit, her coat, scarf, mittens, and sweater in a neat pile underneath the chair. She watched Hannibal for a while, still desperately digging for what she would say when she was alone with him. If Will had not exaggerated, Hannibal would not take lightly to harsh accusations; perhaps the best course of action would be to prompt him coyly, fishing answers from him indirectly. 

“Hey, Hannibal, so I hear you’re a big fan of psychological torture and emotional manipulation? Let’s do lunch,” she muttered to herself, shaking her head. She cast a glance around the room. Something would have to breech the subject gently. Something would have to bring their conversation around to Will naturally. 

As her eyes wandered, they fell on Hannibal’s desk, which was barely visible from her seat at the back of the balcony. Without making any noise, she tiptoed to the railing, leaning over in order to get a better view. Perhaps a newspaper, an article, a picture would spark the conversation. 

But instead, the only thing out of the ordinary she could find was a small swatch of yellow fabric folded in the desk chair. From where she stood, she could not quite make out the writing on the front, but it almost appeared to be Greek letters. She wondered what they were. 

“Miss Ford?” Hannibal’s voice startled her, “Would you mind bringing me Mrs. Huntingdon’s file. You’ll find it in the bottom drawer of my desk.”

“Sure, sure,” Ophelia nodded, hurrying down to the first level of the room, the sound of her boots echoing around the room. As Hannibal watched and Mrs. Huntingdon stared down at her fingernails, nose wrinkled, Ophelia rifled through the drawer, thumbing over file after file until finally she found the right one. 

“Thank you,” Hannibal nodded to her politely as she approached, file held out before her. As he took it, his fingers brushed against hers. Her heart lurched, and she willed it to stop beating entirely. 

“You sure do have a lot of patients to keep track of,” Ophelia sighed, “Or at least a lot of paperwork.”

“I do my best to be thorough,” Hannibal remained curt, professional, as he turned back to his patient with a twitch of his upper lip and a nod of his head. Ophelia could immediately tell that he did not enjoy the woman’s presence. She resisted the urge to imitate her huffing as she returned to the desk.

As she bent to close the heavy drawer, she blanched, her eyebrows furrowing and her mouth dropping open, ever so slightly. 

“Hang on...” she muttered, “this is mine. This is my shirt.” She picked it up from its neat resting place in the chair, her thumb skimming over the bold pink letters that spelled “Chi Omega”. It had been her favorite shirt; she hadn’t even realized it was missing. But what was it doing in Hannibal Lecter’s possession? 

Her snooping undetected, she hurried back to her post, shirt bundled against her stomach as she went. Once she was somewhat out of sight, she stuffed it beneath the chair with her other clothes. Perhaps she would show it to Will later; he would surely have some sort of explanation. 

Ophelia took to reading after a second and a third patient came and went. She had found an enormous anthology of Greek Myths and had buried herself deep in it, nearly forgetting why she had come to Hannibal’s office in the first place. He did not call for her again, but every so often, he glanced up at her, his eyes lingering on her face, scrunched with concentration. He watched as she dog-eared page after page, sometimes lingering on one page for a long while. It was the same book he had seen her lost in before, and it was a comforting sight to behold. 

As Hannibal’s final patient began to gather his coat and hat, Ophelia sat up in her chair, realizing that the light of the day had begun to fade and she was squinting at the words on the page. She reached up to switch on the sconce that hung on the wall above her, simultaneously tugging down at the hem of her sweater as it threatened to expose her scarred stomach. 

When she turned back to face the room, a dark figure outside the window caught her attention. Across the street stood a man, his face oddly familiar. His eyes remained trained on the window, as if he were straining to see inside. Ophelia leaned forward, over the edge of the balcony, her eyes straining against the gloom. She could just barely make out his features: hard, cold, covered in ornate ink. This was the man that she had met on the bus, what seemed like eons ago. A tremor shook her spine as she watched him. If he had not blinked, she would think him a statue; he remained in the same place for a long while as snow settled atop his head and shoulders. 

Hannibal turned to peer up at her, his hands in his pockets. But before he could inquire about the source of her deep concentration, there was a sharp rapping at the door. 

“Hm,” Hannibal furrowed his brows, “I was hoping to be alone with you for a moment, but I suppose my work is never done.” He stalked to opposite end of the room and Ophelia watched, his hulking shoulders blocking the door from her view. 

A moment of silence followed the opening of the door, then a sharp female voice spoke, “Well aren’t you going to let me in?”

“I am reluctant to,” Hannibal stepped aside and a head of fiery curls burst into the room, “Miss Lounds.”

“Why?” she laughed, shrugging her bag off of her shoulder and tossing it onto the chaise lounge by the window, “I’m not here to be antagonistic,” she sighed glancing around the room. Then her eyes landed on Ophelia. A sickly sweet grin spread across her face. 

“Hi,” Ophelia cleared her throat. 

“Hello up there,” Freddie stood below her, hands on her hips, her head craned to maintain eye contact, “Why don’t you come down here?” She nonchalantly pulled her jacket from her shoulders and tossed it over the arm of the chair closest to her, then came to meet Ophelia at the bottom of the stairs. 

“If she wishes to remain where she is, she may,” Hannibal snapped, his composure riddled with wrinkles. 

“I- it’s fine,” Ophelia furrowed her brows, “I can... I can come down there, I guess.”

“You’re Ophelia,” Freddie stated, her eyes remaining trained on her face as she descended the stairs. 

“Guilty as charged,” Ophelia shrugged, forcing a small laugh. 

“Well, I’m a friend of Hannibal’s and-”

“You use the term ‘friend’ quite liberally, Miss Lounds,” Hannibal stalked to his desk, positioning himself between Ophelia and Freddie. His face was steely, his body a marble statue; unmoved. 

“Lounds...” Ophelia frowned, “Where have I heard that name before?”

Freddie smirked, tossing a stray curl over her shoulder, “You’re well-read, then, if you know of me.”

“What do you-”

Hannibal shifted his weight, his fingers clenching, “What is it you need?”

Freddie smoothed out the hem of her leopard print dress, her head cocked to the side, “I need a lot of things, Doctor Lecter. Information is one of them.”

“Lounds!” Ophelia barked, her eyes opening wide and her finger flying upward to point at Freddie’s face, “Freddie Lounds. Tattle Crime. You’re that woman who wrote all those awful things about Will,” Ophelia bristled, taking one step closer to her, “How dare you? Who the hell do you think you are, making up stories like that?” Hannibal did nothing to stop her as her hands curled into tight fists at her sides. The realization cast a brooding shadow across Ophelia’s features; Hannibal relished the glimpse of familiarity it gave him. 

“It’s all in my job description, darling,” Freddie cooed, her full lips curling into a poisonously sweet smile, “Someone has to do it.”

“No, no one has to _do_ anything,” Ophelia spat, “Especially not to someone innocent. Someone like Will.”

“Will is not entirely innocent, though,” Freddie shrugged. She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head, as if enjoying watching Ophelia’s face redden with anger. 

“None of us are truly innocent,” Ophelia turned her head, staring pointedly at Hannibal, “are we? We all do things we shouldn’t. But that doesn’t give you an excuse to drag his name through the mud. Is that what you’re here for? To get another ‘story’ to please the bottom feeders that read your drivel?” A shiver ran up Hannibal’s straight spine, but he did not let it show.

Freddie laughed, “Well we’re jumping to conclusions pretty quickly, aren’t we? No, Ophelia, my interest is not in Will Graham. Not for the moment, anyway. _He_ doesn’t pose a threat to my media.”

“Then why are you here, exactly?” Hannibal interjected, coming to stand just beside Ophelia, ready to jump to her defense. She shifted away from him ever so slightly. 

“Well, if you must insist on spoilers, Doctor Lecter, I’ll give them to you. You see, I’ve been collaborating with an outside source lately,” she meandered over to the chair over which her jacket was draped and sat, “An old friend of yours is in town and he’s been helping me. Well... the term ‘friend’ is one I use loosely. Former business partner, maybe? Oh, I would just hate to ruin this story for you two, but I’m sure we’ll pop in again sometime soon. A reunion story!” she threw her hands in the air, her face alight, like a child at a birthday party, “Everyone loves a good reunion story.”

“Are you planning on doing to Doctor Lecter what you’ve done to Will Graham?” Ophelia took a few steps toward her, “Because if so, you need to leave. No one deserves that kind of treatment.” Hannibal mirrored her movements as if magnets were attached to his feet. He imagined throwing Ophelia over his shoulder and making a mad dash for the door, but of course he could not. 

Freddie stared at her for a moment, her eyes hard. She stood, crossing her arms over her chest, her eyes darting back to Hannibal for the slightest moment. She sighed and shook her head, brow furrowing and lips curling into a piteous frown. 

“What?” Ophelia snapped, feeling the scrutiny of her gaze. 

“Just...” Freddie shrugged, “You remind me of another girl I saw here once.”

“Here?”

“Yes, just a few months ago, actually. I was doing a bit of writing in the little hole-in-the-wall cafe across the street and I saw her from through the window. She was burying a bird. A sparrow, I think it was. She seemed so... distressed. Distraught, over the loss of something so significant as a sparrow.” Ophelia’s head began to swirl ever so slightly; she thought it nothing more than a wave of heat washing over her.

Hannibal bristled, “It’s time for you to leave, Miss Lounds.” He took a step toward her and she mirrored him, stepping back. 

“Oh, so soon?” Freddie pouted, her eyes never leaving Ophelia’s face. She relished in the deep lines that riddled her concentrated stare. She could almost hear the dominos falling. 

“I hate to be rude, but I really must insist,” Hannibal snapped, his voice beginning to crack with effort. 

“Of course,” Freddie sighed, slipping her jacket back over her shoulders, “I’m sure I’ll be more warmly received when we next meet.”

“Doubtful,” Hannibal muttered.

“Wait a minute,” Ophelia held her hand out to Freddie as she turned toward the door, “Who was the girl? Who I remind you of. Who was she?”

Freddie shook her head, her hand on the doorknob now. She looked over her shoulder at Ophelia and Hannibal and smirked, “From what I hear, she’s a killer. Maybe it’s best if you don’t remember her.” And with that, Freddie spirited away into the cold, leaving Hannibal and Ophelia standing in silence. She watched Freddie cross the street through the window, watched as she came to a stop in the same spot in which the tattooed man had stood just moments before. 

“Insufferable vulture of a woman,” Hannibal contemplated locking the door behind Freddie. He moved to the door, stiff and mechanical. It took a great amount of restraint to not follow her out into the snow and snap her neck then and there. 

Behind him, Ophelia began to pace back and forth between the leather chairs, thumb and forefinger pressed to her temples. 

“She just...” Ophelia shook her head, “God, I swear I’ve spoken to her before. I don’t understand how I could forget a character like that.”

“Don’t put too much weight on her words,” Hannibal watched her pace, “Lies, more like. Freddie Lounds revels in filth and the production of it. She would say anything to get a rise out of-”

“And what the hell was that story about the girl and the bird? Why does that put chills in my back and a pounding in my head?” she fell into the chair opposite Hannibal, “Maybe I’m just annoyed. Mad. Hateful, even. How could she write those things about Will? She...” Ophelia looked up at Hannibal, her brows furrowed as the puzzle pieces began to fall into place, “What if someone put her up to it?”

“What do you mean?” Hannibal gingerly sank into the seat opposite her, struggling to remain unfazed. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” heat, angry heat, prickled up Ophelia’s spine as she lost control of her tongue, “Maybe someone was covering their tracks. Rubbing dirt over a wound. People believe the media, right? Even if it’s lies, people would believe anything.”

Hannibal remained silent. He remained stony, even as Ophelia’s eyes bore into his. It was suddenly what the cogs in her head were churning over. 

“You may speak frankly, Ophelia,” Hannibal prodded, “I will not deny you the truth if you do me the courtesy of ceasing your riddles.” He was sure he knew what would come next. It was only a matter of time before she told Will’s side of the story, however warped it may be. It it were anyone other than Ophelia making these accusations, they would not be allowed to do more than open their mouths. But Hannibal knew that he must give her a chance to purge the venom that she held within her fragile body. So he waited for the dam to break. And break it did.

“Fine,” Ophelia threw up her hands, “Fine! Why did you frame Will for the Ripper’s murders? Was it _fun_ for you? Is it something you do with all of your patients? Pick a stigma at random and nail it to them, no matter how uncharacteristic? Pull at their strings? What about Mrs. Huntingdon, huh? Are you planning on pulling at her wires too, or was that just for Will? He is a good man, and you know it. He didn’t deserve the shit you put them through. He still doesn’t.”

“Ophelia, I-”

“No, no, let me finish my thought, okay? I don’t know what you would want to gain by framing Will. It doesn’t make a ton of sense. But I do know that you haven’t gained shit, Hannibal, because the real killer is still out there. And Will? Will is wise to you now. He told me. But I... didn’t want to believe it. You... you’re so... I want to... I wanted to know you, and now that I know what Will went through, I don’t know what I want.”

Hannibal was silent for a moment, then he slid from his chair, coming to kneel before Ophelia. She stiffened, leaning against the back of the chair, willing the gap between them to remain. She watched as he shrugged off his jacket, folding it neatly over the arm of the chair. 

“Will tried to have me killed once,” Hannibal stated simply, “It was a messy affair. And entirely unwarranted.” He rolled his sleeves to his elbows and held his arms out to her, palms up. Two long scars ran in perfect symmetry up his wrists in long vertical lines. 

Ophelia found herself reaching to touch them, her fingers trembling, “What happened?” Her voice was no more than a whisper.

“I admit my fascination with Will’s unique mentality may have been perceived as antagonistic. Clearly my professional curiosity should have been reigned in; he must have felt quite like a science project. Will was incarcerated because he was losing himself, and in the context of the cases on which he was working, his instability proved to be a liability. Naturally, in his eyes, the blame fell to me. The easy out is always to blame the therapist; well who else could have made him so unstable? One night, I was given what he felt I deserved: a crucifixion.”

“What?” Ophelia’s fingers ghosted over the scars, her voice quavering. The foundation on which her her argument, and Will’s, stood, was crumbling.

“It was gruesome. I wouldn’t want to disturb you with the details.”

“Tell me,” she murmured, shame, confusion, and anger battling in her chest. 

“Well, he sent a man to accost me late at night. I was swimming. The man rendered me unconscious using a kind of paralytic poison. I awoke with a noose around my neck, my slit wrists tied aloft at my sides, and no support beneath me but an overturned bucket. I could barely breathe, and I could barely see. A river of my blood soaked the man’s shoes. _That_ I remember quite clearly.”

“Jesus,” Ophelia breathed, her fingers clasping around his wrists. 

Hannibal laughed stiffly, “Perhaps that was the idea.”

She shook her head, “I had no idea.”

“Of course you didn’t. You’d only been told one side of the story. Will’s truth is quite different from mine.”

“Why would he do that?” she could feel the space inside her ribcage tearing in half. 

“Madness has no explanation.”

They sat in silence for a moment, their eyes searching each other. The position in which they had become statues was all too familiar; Hannibal could almost hear Jack’s voice echoed by Ophelia’s screams. Hannibal longed to stroke the flush of heat that washed across her cheeks. He ached to run his fingers through her hair, to lock his hands with hers. 

But before he could, there was a pounding at the door. Ophelia, startled by the sound, pulled back from Hannibal even farther. The pounding continued until Hannibal flung open the door, ready to reprimand whoever had so rudely interrupted them. 

Will burst past him, eyes searching the room for Ophelia. “It’s time for you to come home,” he hissed. 

Ophelia shot to her feet as Hannibal shut the door behind Will. Her eyes snapped between the two men, wide and whining. 

“What are you doing here?” she muttered.

“What do you think?” he made to grab her arm, “I’m here to take you home.”

“Don’t touch me,” Ophelia snapped, jerking her hand out of his reach. 

Will froze, his eyes wide and his jaw hanging partially open. His head jerked to the left, to where Hannibal had come to stand, then back to Ophelia, who clutched her torso as if it would fall to pieces if she let it go.

Then, together, Will and Hannibal hissed, “Ophelia.” They glanced again at each other; Hannibal’s calm pretense made Will flare. 

Glasses askew, he took a step toward her, his hands outstretched, “Ophelia, please. Come home. We didn’t know where you had run off to, and.... Please, Ophelia. I was worried. Alana was worried. You need to come with me.”

“She doesn’t _need_ to do anything,” Hannibal stepped forward as well, his languid voice in harsh contrast with Will’s, “She knows her own mind.”

“No!” Will snapped, “No she doesn’t! That’s the trouble here. You, Doctor Lecter, you-”

“Shut up!” Ophelia wailed, her hands on her head, “shut up, shut up, shut up! I don’t know who any of you are! I don’t even know for sure who _I_ am!”

“Ophelia-” Hannibal started.

“No,” she snapped, “I feel like I’ve got holes in my head and you’re all trying to fill them. And that’s not for you to do! I feel like I’m crazy!”

Will took a step toward her and she shied away, holding her hands out, shielding her face.

“Let me take you home,” Will pleaded gently, “We don’t... we don’t have to talk. You don’t even have to look at me. Just come home. Please.”

Without a word, Ophelia hurried up the stairs, snatched up her coat, scarf, and gloves, and hurried between Will and Hannibal toward the door. For a moment, she paused, her hand over the knob. She shook her head, shrugging on her coat, as she threw one last glance over her shoulder at Hannibal. He made no moves toward her; he knew better. 

Once Will and Ophelia had gone, Hannibal turned to face the empty room. The air still barely smelled of roses. he slowly made his way up the stairs to where she had sat, desperate to surround himself with her essence again. 

Beside the chair sat a stack of books. Hannibal sat, picking up each book one at a time, turning them over and over, imagining her hands doing the same. At the bottom of the stack sat Ophelia’s notebook, the pages wrinkled and worn from overuse. A woeful smile crossed his lips as he flipped through it, relishing this peek into her soul. 

Hannibal paused when a violent dash of scribbles caught his eye. Taking up an entire page, his name was written, crossed out, rewritten, crossed out again. At the very bottom of the page, though, was a small cluster of doodled hearts next to his name. He chuckled as his finger traced the drawing. Taking a pen from his coat pocket, and with one small sweep, he circled his name and shut the notebook. 

 


End file.
